


Song of the Storm Coast

by screamingwine (wilderswans)



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Alternate Universe - The Little Mermaid Fusion, Closeted Character, Eamon is a killjoy, Eamon's political scheming, F/F, Hunting scene, Mermaids, Pining, arranged/coerced marriage, depictions of animal violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-06
Updated: 2017-02-06
Packaged: 2018-09-22 09:46:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 32,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9602321
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wilderswans/pseuds/screamingwine
Summary: A very belated Christmas gift for my amazing girlfriend, QueenofEden. My kadan, my heart, my co-punner, my cryptid hunting partner - I love you to 32k words and beyond.Very special super awesome thanks to rhoswenmahariel, whose encouragement, edits, and plot-untangling made this possible. Any further errors in the text or formatting are my own.Note: Olympia Cousland belongs to QueenofEden; Rhoswen Mahariel belongs to, as you guessed, rhoswenmahariel/salutationtothestars here on AO3.Captain Gorrick somehow conned his way into belonging to me - he and the crew ofThe Paragonwill see the Rollin in Thedas crew in a future campaign.Suggested listening: The albumMermaids and Marinersby Anne Roos.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [QueenofEden](https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenofEden/gifts).



> A very belated Christmas gift for my amazing girlfriend, QueenofEden. My kadan, my heart, my co-punner, my cryptid hunting partner - I love you to 32k words and beyond.
> 
> Very special super awesome thanks to rhoswenmahariel, whose encouragement, edits, and plot-untangling made this possible. Any further errors in the text or formatting are my own. 
> 
> Note: Olympia Cousland belongs to QueenofEden; Rhoswen Mahariel belongs to, as you guessed, rhoswenmahariel/salutationtothestars here on AO3.  
> Captain Gorrick somehow conned his way into belonging to me - he and the crew of _The Paragon_ will see the Rollin in Thedas crew in a future campaign.
> 
> Suggested listening: The album _Mermaids and Mariners_ by Anne Roos.

There's a witch who comes to the water, sometimes. She knows of Leliana's people, and they of her, though that didn't make it any less unnerving when Leliana raised her eyes above the waves and saw her figure on the shore, a beacon of bone-white and slivers of moon shining against the darkness of forest and rain-slick rock.

When the witch came to the water the sea-people left her alone, though that never stopped Leliana from hiding amid the rocks some distance away and watching her, curious and slightly nervous at the same time. Once, in a thunderstorm that whipped the swells to the size of land-mountains and lit up the sky like night imitating day in strikes of lightning, the witch stood on a cliff overlooking the sea. While the rest of the sea-people weathered the crashing waves in the relative safety of their kelp forest, Leliana rode the waves and watched her stand, pelted by lashing rain, with her arms raised as if in worship.

In the fierce light of a crack of lightning, their eyes met briefly. Despite the distance, Leliana suppressed a shiver and dove back down, unsure if she was frightened by the witch.

"I do not think you truly grasp what you desire for me to do," the witch is saying now. Up close, her eyes are yellow. Leliana has never before seen a creature with yellow eyes; only the liquid black eyes of seals and the ocean hues of her sea-people. That unnerves her, more than the power she knows this human commands. "'Tis not an easy thing, what you ask me."

"But surely, it has been done before?" Leliana persists, crossing her arms over her chest. "There are stories - songs sung by my people -"

The witch snorts. "There are stories of women like me stealing away boy children in the dead of night and devouring their flesh in unholy ceremony. Just because the stories are told does not make them true."

Leliana tries to mask the disappointment descending like a dark cloud over her. "I understand," she says. "I am sorry for disturbing you." She begins to swim away, careful not to splash the witch where she stands on the shore with a sweep of her tail fin. She does not think the yellow-eyed woman would take kindly to it.

"I did not say that it was _im_ possible," the witch calls after her, sounding vexed. "But if you're determined to leave, I will not stop you."

Leliana hesitates, then swims back to the shoreline. The witch is still standing there, something close to amusement in her yellow eyes.

"Are you sure this is what you want?" the witch asks, instead of explaining. "'Twill not be easy, I assure you."

"I am very sure," Leliana says firmly. "I will do whatever it takes."

The witch surveys her through half-lidded eyes. Something in her gaze is cutting, worse than sharp rocks, worse than wind. "You will have to give something very dear to you in exchange, for that is how the magic works."

That gives Leliana some pause. The sea-people have no wealth like humans do; trinkets from shipwrecks and treasures lost at sea are valued more for how they look rather than any material value. A sea-maiden is just as likely to treasure a salvaged necklace of clay beads as one of diamonds and pearls. "I have nothing to give, no valuables," she begins, but stops short when she realizes the witch is _laughing_.

"Valuables? What use does magic have for valuables?" she asks. Leliana remains quiet, feeling the small currents in the water fan her fins gently. It seems to be a rhetorical question anyway, for the witch continues: "You cannot gain something for nothing. First you must give of yourself. That is how it is done."

"Then I will give it, whatever it is," Leliana says. She has never felt so sure of anything in her life. The witch is observing her again, looking pensive. "What?" Leliana asks, feeling a little impatient.

"I know I will regret asking this," says the witch, "but I wonder, why are you so quick to agree? To cast off your life, your people, to walk among humans? You don't even know what the magic will take."

"I am doing this for love," Leliana says simply. She thinks of the woman, the brief touch she stole days ago on a rainy beach, how her eyes shone like the sea on a clear day when she opened them, the weight of her in her arms as she carried them both through the undertow into calmer waters. Yes, she has never been surer of anything.

The witch rolls her eyes. "Forget I asked. Give me three days' time, and you shall have your legs."

After her pale figure has disappeared into the treeline, Leliana finally dives back into the water's embrace. She twists and circles in the foam, dancing under the weight of the waves, and sings her joy between the great green waving stalks of kelp.

  
\- -

  
It is her seventh day of bedrest, and Olympia has had enough.

"Maker take you," she snaps, shaking off the guard who's rushed over to no doubt scold her and harry her back into her bedchamber. "I can manage, I'm not an invalid."

There's worry written all over the man's face beneath his helmet. "But - my Lady - the healer said your injury was grievous -"

"I hit my head," Olympia says flatly. "Not my feet or my legs, which are working just fine. If I don't get some fresh air I'll go mad."

"But," he begins again, obviously weighing the risks of arguing with his Teyrna over disobeying the healer's direct orders. Finally, he steps back, standing at attention with his hand on the hilt of his sword. "You may do as you wish, my Lady, but I'll accompany you should you need any assistance."

Maker, one would think she was still an infant in swaddling clothes instead of the Teyrna of Highever, with the fuss and bother everyone was creating over her. Still, Olympia knows despite grumbling her customary grumble, it's the best option she'll get.

"Loki would do just as well," she mumbles, pointing to the mabari at her heel.

Guards and servants snap to attention and bow as she makes her way through the open corridors of the castle; she dismisses them with a wave, unsure if she wants so much open attention from her household. Her head, she is loathe to admit, still aches tenderly beneath the bandages.

"Well now," Rhoswen says, emerging from the main hall as Olympia passes the door, propped open to accommodate the hustle and bustle of servants going to and fro. "It's good to see you on your feet, though I'm sure Sister Francina will have both of our heads if she hears you're out of bed."

"Then we make sure she doesn't find out," Olympia says, feeling something in her soften as she takes in the elf. The guard behind her bows to Rhoswen. From the first day of donning what was Fergus' title after he went to Denerim to command the King's Guard, Olympia made it abundantly clear that those who failed to show the Teyrna's companion the same respect they showed the Cousland family would be out of a job. Even if she hadn't, Olympia suspects, Rhoswen would have won them over regardless. It was impossible not to love her.

"I'm all for keeping secrets from Sister Francina, but if you think I'm letting you go in there and start picking up all the preparations that need to be made, you've hit your head harder than I thought," Rhoswen says. She plants her hands on her hips and looks up at Olympia with all the sternness she can muster. "So let me hear you say it: You won't go into the main hall and start fussing about the royal visit."

"I won't," Olympia agrees. "I wasn't going to anyway. I know you have everything well in hand."

"Well," says Rhoswen, perhaps a little taken aback at Olympia's surprising lack of stubbornness on this front. "That's ah - all well and good. Where to, my friend?"

"The library," Olympia says. Something has been niggling at her, since the moment she woke up with a hazy memory of falling and a fierce ache in her head. She's tried to recall it several times over the course of her enforced bedrest - the precise events of what transpired after she fell. She knows she was recovered on the beach, clothes soaking and a bleeding gash on her head, but everything between the fall and waking in her own bed days later is a misty blur.

In the library, she sits at both Rhoswen's and the guard's insistence, and suspends any impatience she feels while the guard fusses with the fire, stoking it up to ward off the winter chill. Loki settles himself at the fireside with a sleepy sigh, and within moments is rumbling with doggy snores.

"Are you wanting anything in particular, or just a change of scenery?" Rhoswen is asking, pulling up a chair next to Olympia's. "I can read to you if your head still hurts."

Olympia feels herself flush, the notion of what she's looking for suddenly seeming rather foolish. "Anything on local folklore, I think. Especially if there are tales of mermaids."

Rhoswen raises an eyebrow, but disappears between the shelves. Olympia watches her dart to and fro, building a little stack of books on the table with a quick and tidy grace. Many of the books are, she notes, slender things with illustrations, books for children.

"Any reason for the sudden fascination with the sea-people?" Rhoswen asks, nodding to the guard to dismiss him. He relocates from beside the fire to just outside the door, closing it gently behind him so the two Ladies of Castle Cousland have privacy.

Olympia knows she can tell Rhoswen anything; it's a consequence of them growing up together. Still, she hesitates in telling her. Apart from feeling foolish, if she goes around saying _a mermaid could have saved me from drowning_ , folk will start to think their Teyrna has well and truly gone mad. Maybe she has, she thinks with a sort of grim wryness.

"I'm not certain how I got to shore after falling," she says slowly, carefully selecting her words. "Perhaps it was the will of the Maker that I live. Perhaps it was a mermaid. Perhaps the ocean just decided I tasted awful and chose to spit me back out," she adds, shrugging. Rhoswen is looking at her with great sympathy, and not the least bit of concern.

"Olympia," she says. "I wouldn't be your friend if I didn't ask -" and then she hesitates, stopping short. Something like worry crosses her face.

"Ask what?" Olympia asks, suddenly feeling very tired. "What's wrong?"

"People aren't talking openly, but there are questions being asked in whispers," Rhoswen admits. "And the possibility that you jumped, rather than fell, has been raised."

For a moment, Olympia sits with that, stunned at the audacity. Of course rumors would always be rumors and they would breed around any incident involving her, what with her being a noble, no matter what the truth was. But it stuns her more to realize how close it hits to home.

Not that she would ever admit, of course, that the thought did cross her mind, up there on the cliff overlooking the wintry ocean - especially if the uncomfortable possibility of a political marriage to the new King became a reality. This - _this_ is something she doesn’t dare tell Rhoswen.

"I fell," she says firmly. "I lost my footing while I was walking - the ground was slippery, and the day was windy, as you'll recall." Then something occurs to her, new despite a week of wracking her aching head to try and remember. "What time of day was I found on the beach?"

"What?" Rhoswen looks confused for a moment before comprehension dawns on her face. "Just after midday, I think. I was about to look for you and see if you wanted anything to eat."

Olympia frowns, struggling with the memory. Cold water, a deep ache in her head, a sunset. "I remember something," she admits. "I could have been hallucinating - I’d just dashed my head on a rock. But I will swear before you and the Maker that I remember seeing a sunset - that sort of burnished orange, like when the sun is on the horizon on a clear day."

Rhoswen bites her lip, shaking her head. "It was early afternoon, Olympia, and the day was rainy. I don't know what you saw."

"Maybe I did just imagine it," Olympia says, trying to shake off the memory even as she struggled to piece it together. She reaches for the topmost book on the stack, a slim volume bound in blue leather. The front page proclaims it to be _Tales from Beyond The Waking Sea_ , and a caricature of a mermaid, no doubt drawn by a man judging by the ampleness of the bosom and the swell of hips, coils her tail in a saucy curl beneath the title.

"Well," she says, grimacing and sliding the open book over to Rhoswen. "At the very least, I'm certain _that_ didn't save me."

"I think you would remember that," Rhoswen says, eyes wide. She gives a little laugh. "Maybe a cousin of hers."

Olympia takes the book back, feeling foolish again. "Maker," she sighs. "You must think I'm mad."

Rhoswen falls quiet again, tapping her fingertips on the table thoughtfully. She’s silent long enough that Olympia becomes suddenly horribly afraid that she'd agree, yes, the Teyrna is mad, before she speaks.

"When I was a child, a clansman of mine swore up and down that he saw the great witch Asha'bellanar when he was out hunting, and that she was followed by a great number of beasts, from bears to mice, and that the deer he was tracking leapt to join her retinue. Everyone else in the clan laughed, and said, 'oh, what an excuse for losing his quarry!' But after that he no longer hunted, devoting himself instead to craft.  
"So, despite everyone laughing and ribbing him for claiming to see the witch when she hadn't been seen in years, he believed what he saw, and I believed that he believed. And if you believe a sea-person saved you, then I believe in that too," says Rhoswen, voice firm.

Not for the first time, Olympia feels humbled, blown away with sheer gratitude for her friend. "I - thank you, Rhoswen," she says. She glances down at the buxom mermaid in the book. "At present I'm not sure what I believe, other than that I'm lucky to be alive."

"I'll say," Rhoswen says, picking up another book from the stack and flipping through it. "It would be rotten bad luck to die just before the King arrives." She changes her voice, pitching it low and full of overblown, hearty gusto. "'Oh well! The good Teyrna was kind enough to vacate the Teyrnir for me! Looks like Highever is mine now!'"

"He doesn't sound like that, surely!" Olympia says, trying hard not to laugh. Rhoswen smirks up at her.

"How do you know? You haven't met the man, and besides, every human nobleman sounds the same - Couslands excluded, because you're all a cut above," she adds. "I'll eat my hat if he doesn't sound like every other self-important brat who's tagged along with their daddies in the hope of marrying you over the past ten years."

"You don't have a hat," Olympia points out, feeling the corners of her mouth twitch. Rhoswen shrugs.

"Then you'll buy me one, and I'll eat it."

Soon enough, Rhoswen had to return to her duties of ensuring the castle was fit to receive the new King of Ferelden, looking over the repairs and approving menus for each night of the royal visit. It was what Olympia would be doing, if she hadn't fallen - what she still feels is her duty, despite knowing the castle is in good and capable hands.

Olympia retires early that night after a bland supper of bread and broth, and falls asleep over an open tome of Storm Coast folklore, Loki curled at the foot of her bed. When she dreams, she dreams of water, salty foam, and a faint song forgotten upon awakening.

  
\- -

  
"Ah," says the witch, peering down at Leliana like she’s something mildly interesting on the bottom of her foot. "'Twas not too painful, was it?"

Leliana opens her mouth to say _no_ , and is once more hit with a roiling nausea when she realizes her voice is still gone.

The pain of the magic was sharp and cold, like slashing her hand against a jagged rock. It's also primarily what Leliana remembers of the transformation, aside from a sickening sensation of song being pulled from her lungs as if stolen, an unearthly green light, the witch's yellow eyes. Leliana shakes her head as much to respond to the witch as to clear it.

Her new legs are long and slender. She stares, transfixed, at the delicate bones beneath the skin of her ankles, the pink tips of her toes, the knobs of knees she's not quite sure what to do with. But she has seen the witch walk, has seen many humans walk from where she was hidden out of sight, and puts a hand beneath her to try and stand.

"Don't be a fool," the witch says, and for a moment Leliana is about to turn on her in anger before she realizes the witch is actually holding out her hand. Feeling chagrined, she takes it and allows the witch to help her up.

"'Tis not easy, taking your first steps," says the witch, watching the way Leliana's knees shake beneath her. "But perhaps the rhythm of it is not so dissimilar from swimming?"

_The two are worlds apart_ , Leliana wishes she could say. The beach sand is coarse beneath her toes, and surf-smoothed pebbles are slippery underfoot. For several shaky moments, she's terrified she'll fall, and before she knows what she's done she's flung her arms out to keep balance.

Perhaps not so dissimilar, then. She's had to keep her arms out and steady to stay above the surface in choppy water, to keep herself from being buffeted beneath enormous tidal waves. She looks over at the surf, steadily crashing onto the shore just feet away, and suddenly misses it fiercely - her kelp forests and smooth underwater caves, the sundered skeletons of ships to explore far beneath the waves.

The witch follows her gaze, and in that uncanny way of hers, addresses what she's thinking. "'Tis too late for second thoughts," she says, though not without a note of pity. "I am sorry. This magic cannot be taken back."

Leliana looks at her, opens her mouth. _What about my voice?_ she wants to say. Instead, she holds a hand to her throat, taps it until she's sure the witch understands her meaning.

"I cannot say," says the witch. The steely grey clouds that have been threatening rain for hours split open, and a torrential downpour begins. Glancing upwards in annoyance, the witch raises a hand to avoid getting wet hair in her eyes. Leliana has to risk upsetting her balance to pull her dripping hair out of her face. She never would have thought the open air would be so cold; involuntarily, she shivers.

"Of course, if you truly mean to live among humans, you understand that I cannot and will not see you again," says the witch. "But if ever you can return to the wilder coast, you may find me."

She turns to leave and for a moment Leliana wants to ask her to _wait_. She stands, shivering in the rain, unsure of what to do next, before she sees the witch hesitate and turn back around. Her slender white fingers are undoing the ties of her cloak.

"There is a path up that hill," she says, pointing to the stretch of thickly-forested slopes to their left. "Following that path, there is a village three hours' walk to the west." She hands Leliana the cloak, probably as much to cover her nakedness as to keep her warm, and watches as she ties it on. It smells green, of crushed herbs and damp wool, and with it on Leliana shivers less.

She begins walking to the hill with uneven, wobbly steps, and halfway there turns to wave farewell to the witch, to this strange woman who has helped her even as she's robbed her of her voice. But the witch is gone, and the only figure Leliana sees between the tree trunks is that of a great she-bear, lumbering up the other hill.

The hill presents a great, exhausting challenge. The grass is slippery and her feet slide out from beneath her until her hands and knees are stained green with crushed grass; unused to adjusting her center of gravity to ascend the hill, her hips ache. It takes the better part of an hour to reach the top, and then she's so overwhelmed at being on land she has to sit, letting her back rest against a solid tree trunk.

There are so many _colors_ , so many smells. The sea-people could smell everything on the wind and water, sniffing out warm currents and able to scent when a storm would be coming in, even three days before it arrived. On land she smells nothing but green plants and dirt, so than the cold smooth scent of rocks in the sea. Her body feels strangely off-kilter, without the even pulse of waves around her.

She glances down at the new lower half of her body, the strange new human anatomy. She knows its function, but to see it plainly there causes her to blush. Hurriedly she looks down at her toes, where there's dirt beneath her toenails, mud caking the soft bottoms of her feet, and already there's a reddened scrape on her shin where she hit a stone tripping on the hill.

It is too early for her to doubt, she knows. That doesn't stop her from questioning if she's done the right thing. There's no guarantee she'll even be able to find the dark-haired woman she pulled from the waves, or if she'll remember her. Leliana doesn't even know if she survived the injury to her head, though she was breathing when Leliana left her on the beach, slipping into the shallows behind a cluster of barnacle-covered boulders as the search party ran to the body on the beach, crying out for their Teyrna. Leliana doesn't know what a Teyrna is, but she knows enough of humans to gather it must mean someone important.

It gets dark quickly on land, and Leliana doesn't want to spend the night out in the rain, in the open, in the cold. Getting back to her feet is a struggle, but leaning on the tree helps, and walking for what seems like forever is less exhausting when she can stop and catch her breath against an obliging tree trunk. She hopes the human village has trees, she thinks, or that other humans will be obliging enough to help pull her up.

  
\- -

  
On the day the King and his entourage are due to arrive, blessedly, there's a break in the weather. Olympia awakes to a thin sliver of winter sunlight coming through the windows, and though the foul winter storm has abated, it's been replaced by a frosty chill that sends her shivering and reaching for her heaviest wool cloak. Even Loki is reluctant to leave the warmth of her chambers, and not for the first time Olympia considers having a coat made for her hound, if she didn't know he would just as quickly chew it off as wear it.

The rest of the household is already outfitted in their finest, Rhoswen looking particularly striking in a gown of emerald green wool, thread of gold glinting in the embroidery at her wrists. Her hair is done up in a loose bun, which reminds Olympia she'll have to fuss with her own hair before the day is over.

"Sleep well?" Rhoswen asks, pouring her friend a cup of tea and passing it down the table. Olympia sips at it, savoring the way it takes some of the chill out of her.

"Sort of," she admits. Since the fall, she has not slept soundly, though now her nights are less troubled by pain and more by dreams.

Always the same one - water, rocks, the sun, the song. Olympia can now remember snatches of it while awake, which is in some ways worse: She's never heard that song before, nor can anyone else recognize it when she hums the bits of melody she remembers. Perhaps she just lacks any sort of musical ability, she thinks, scowling into her tea.

"Are the preparations quite ready?" she asks, instead of elaborating on her sleep, which is what she knows Rhoswen is waiting to hear. The elf frowns a little bit, but nods nonetheless.

"The guest suite is, dare I say, cleaner than when this place was first built," Rhoswen says. "Cook would like your final approval on the menu for tonight's welcome feast, and we've got a double patrol of guards to watch the roads and the castle for the duration of his stay."

Olympia sighs, reaching over across the breakfast table to squeeze Rhoswen's smaller hand. "You are a gem," she says gratefully.

"Don't you forget it," Rhoswen agrees, refilling Olympia's teacup.

The rest of the day flies by in a flurry of preparation, and Olympia barely finds time to change into her own finery, buttoning her cloak over a gown of midnight blue, fastening her belts and boots before the alarm is raised: Dust on the road. The royal party, traveling quickly to the castle.

"Your hair," Rhoswen hisses at her as she's just about to slide her family's sword into its strap on her belt.

"Do we have time?" Olympia frowns, putting the sword aside. Rhoswen waves for her to sit at her dressing table and braids her hair with lightning speed, coiling the braids in on themselves into Olympia's customary hair style as Olympia watches her reflection in the mirror.

She looks like a Teyrna, every inch a noblewoman. She loves her land, her people, she loves Highever with a fierceness bred into her very bones. But now, with the entire castle on high alert as the King approaches, she feels the weight of duty settle over her shoulders, heavier than the wool cloak she wears.

"Rhoswen," she croaks, as the elf is pinning the braids into place. Her voice feels like it's fighting its way out of her throat. "Rhoswen, I cannot marry him," she says, when her friend meets her gaze in the mirror.

Rhoswen places her hands on her shoulders, turning Olympia to look at her. "I know," she says, squeezing her shoulders in comfort. "No one will make you marry anyone you don't want to. And if they try, they'll have me to deal with."

Olympia feels her face beginning to crumple; she steels it back into some semblance of control, and damns the way her gut clenches in anxiety. At her side, Loki whines, looking between his mistress and her companion, knowing something is amiss. Olympia brings her hand up to squeeze Rhoswen's briefly before standing.

"Let's get the royal welcome over with, then," she says, ignoring the way her heart’s rabbiting in her throat. Rhoswen nods, just as there's a soft knock at the door.

"Begging your pardon, my Lady," says the servant - one of the elven runners, a young dark-haired man Cook often commandeered for his ability to open jars when her wrists are too arthritic. "The mayor of Oar's Rest has come to see you."

"Oar's Rest?" Olympia repeats, in confusion. "At this time?"

"She says it's not urgent, but there's a matter that needs your attention," says the runner. "We've set her and her party up in the chamber just past the atrium. You can take care of it at your leisure."

Olympia exhales a gust of frustration as soon as the door is closed again. "What in Andraste's name could that miserable little hamlet need? On today, of all days?"

"I couldn't say," Rhoswen says levelly, "but the good news is you can deal with it whenever you're done dealing with the King. And speaking of - "

"I know, I know," Olympia says, tamping down her anxiety after its brief resurgence, in the wake of the elf runner's distraction. "Let's get this over with."

The good weather of the morning is holding, and as the afternoon deepens into evening the sunlight is the shade of honey, casting a golden glow on the ancient stones of Castle Cousland. Olympia and Rhoswen, and the prominent members of the household stand at full attention just past the main gates, poised to make an impression. Even Loki is sitting still to her left, wearing his best, least-chewed tooled leather collar.

"This never gets less awkward," Rhoswen mutters at Olympia out of the corner of her mouth, just as the sound of approaching hooves on the cobblestones echoes through the courtyard. First, the banner-bearers, then the leading members of the King's Guard. Olympia feels her heart surge with joy when she sees Fergus at the forefront, shooting her a cheeky grin from beneath his helmet. Then, armor flashing brilliantly in the golden sunlight, a man astride a magnificent dappled stallion who could only be the King himself, followed closely by an older man in more modest armor on a bay charger. That man, Olympia knows already, is the King's advisor and uncle, Eamon of Redcliffe.

Fergus dismounts his horse and approaches the King's stallion, holding the halter of the enormous animal long enough for the King to slide to the ground. Then, passing both animals off to the Castle's stablehands, he approaches the welcome party. Before Olympia can protest, he's lifted her into a sweeping, spinning hug, Fergus's hearty laughter in her ear. Before she can even sputter at him to put her down, he's let her go and treated Rhoswen to the same, actually lifting her off the ground as they spin, laughing. Loki has abandoned sitting still and is positively bouncing with joy, booming loud barks of happiness.

"Your Royal Highness," Fergus says, as the King pulls his helmet off and hands it off to a page who's dismounted from the royal party. "May I present my dear baby sister, Teyrna Olympia Cousland, and her companion, Rhoswen Mahariel of Clan Sabrae. And that's Loki," he adds, when the mabari charges up to the King to sniff his hand cautiously.

"Oh, dear," Rhoswen murmurs at her side, when Alistair turns to greet them. For being unsure of what to expect from the new King Theirin, she certainly wasn't expecting this - an open, honest face with an expressive brow, and eyes that seem ready to smile at a moment's notice. With a bit of a shock, she thinks that the man before her looks more like an affable field hand than a King.

"Sis, may I introduce King Alistair Theirin," Fergus says, as the King approaches. Olympia sweeps into her most formal curtsey, holding it with the skirts of her gown swept back and her head bowed for several long moments. At her side, Rhoswen has also curtseyed.

"Your Highness," Olympia begins, but is cut off by the King holding up a hand.

"None of that, please," he says, smiling a bit sheepishly. "Call me Alistair, please. I get enough of the 'Your Royal Highness' guff from Ser Cousland over here."

Another surprise, then. "Alistair," she says, with as much warmth as she can give formality. "Welcome to Highever. It is our genuine delight and greatest honor to open our home to you." And then, feeling a little tongue-tied, she adds, "Please, avail yourself of our hospitality for as long as you are here. It would be our pleasure to make certain you and your party are as comfortable as possible."

"Thank you," Alistair says, smiling broadly at her. "The pleasure is mine, really. Your Teyrnir is some of the most beautiful land I've ridden through, and I'm excited to become better acquainted with both Highever and yourself."

"You caught it on a good day," Rhoswen says. "Just wait, soon enough it'll be pissing down rain and you'll be imprisoned indoors for weeks on end."

For a moment Olympia catches a look of - shock? consternation? - on the face of the King's advisor, but soon enough it's wiped completely away when Alistair throws his head back and laughs.

"I thought the roads were unusually muddy!" he says, turning his smile on Rhoswen. "Thank you for the warning. Should the weather turn I'll seek out your wisdom for what to do during my confinement."

Soon enough the awkwardness of the first meeting has diffused into something easier, the bustle of a household opening its doors for a guest. Fergus sweeps Alistair and Eamon off to their quarters as a small army of servants carry the royal party's effects in. The horses are brought into the stables and the noise and fuss in the courtyard dies down to a pleasant din of busyness. Olympia ducks into a small alcove and, out of sight of everyone else, lets herself sag against the wall.

"Surely that wasn't so bad," Rhoswen says, following her in and sitting on the small, tucked-away bench. "Though I did think Arl Eamon was going to brown his britches when I opened my mouth."

Olympia closes her eyes, breathing deeply through her nose. "Eamon is a traditionalist, as much as any man who marries an Orlesian can be. If he slights you at all while he's here, even in passing, let me know."

Rhoswen makes a small thoughtful _hmm_ ing noise. "The Arl seems like someone who will watch and see what his King does before taking his own course of action," she says. "Smart, really, for an advisor."

"Sometimes you're too canny for your own good," Olympia says, with no malice. She cracks one eye open. "What do you think of the King?"

To her great surprise, there's a tinge of pink across Rhoswen's nose and cheeks. "He's a very charming boy," she says at last, after a moment of fidgeting with the sleeves of her gown.

"Well, at the very least," Olympia muses, "I can be sure that any proposal of marriage is going to be Eamon's idea, not Alistair's. Somehow, I feel that that makes it worse."

Rhoswen pats her hand. "If it makes you feel better, there might not even be a proposal," she says. "Surely there are other noblewomen."

"None with the wealth and standing of the Teyrna of Highever, and none who are under forty and unmarried," Olympia replies. Her head is starting to ache again; she would very much like to lie down before the welcome feast commences. Aggravatingly, there's still one more piece of business to tend to before she can do anything like get off her feet. "I have to go see what Oar's Rest wants."

"Would you like me to come with you?" Rhoswen asks. But Olympia shakes her head.

"If anything, they probably want me to settle some minor land dispute," she says. "It won't take but a moment, I'm sure." She considers. "Besides, I think your time would be better spent giving King Alistair the tour. No reason to let Fergus have all the fun."

"You're trying to kill me," Rhoswen grouses, face going pink again.

  
\- -

  
The village Leliana stumbled into was scarcely larger than a dozen houses, clustered together on a rise overlooking one of the bays. Fishermen's nets hung to be mended on scaffolds bleached by salt air and sun, and there was a strong odor of smoke in the air. She’d approached one of the largest houses, feeling faint with hunger and exhaustion, before her new legs gave out beneath her.

The door had opened and the smell of smoke grew stronger, accompanied by a strange smell that she'd later learn was cooking food. "Dear Maker!" a woman exclaimed - and then she was bundled inside.

Soon enough she'd learn that she'd had the good fortune of approaching the house of Ida Stockert, more the village elder than a chief or mayor. Ida was a plump woman in her sixties with hands gnarled from labor, which were nonetheless gentle when she treated the scrapes on Leliana's legs and feet with a sharp-smelling salve.

"Slow down there; you’ll choke," she'd said, chuckling while Leliana wolfed down her second bowl of fish stew. Leliana knew the smell of fish, but had never known it cooked. She was hungry enough to not care as she ate; walking was exhausting.

It took Ida a few hours to pull together enough clothes for Leliana, rousing each house in the village to see if they might have some castoffs that would fit the younger woman, and an hour more to show her how to put them on. Indoors and properly warm, Leliana didn't care about the clothing, but she dressed anyway - more for Ida's comfort than any sense of modesty or propriety she felt herself. Humans, she knew, needed to bog themselves down with layers on land whereas the only clothing the sea-people needed was the water around them.

Ida had a funny habit of talking to Leliana as if she would respond. Several times Leliana opened her mouth to say something, to thank her for her kindness, and could only shut it again and tap her throat, like she had done with the witch. Thankfully, Ida seemed to understand.

Over time, it turned into a sort of puzzle game. "Where did you come from?" Ida asked, on a rainy afternoon when they were walking on the path, overlooking the bay. Out on the water, little fishing boats were bobbing in the surf like children's toys. Leliana had pointed out to the water, and it took Ida a moment to make the connection.

"From the Free Marches, then?" she said, clasping her hands on her walking stick. There was no way for Leliana to correct her, so Ida more or less built a story for Leliana that involved getting shipwrecked on a voyage over from the Free Marches - whatever those were - and washing up on shore with no clothes, no money, and no voice. Which was fair enough, Leliana thought, until Ida asked what she was coming to Ferelden for.

At that, Leliana glanced feverishly around Ida's little cabin until she came upon a slender piece of reed, not yet woven into one of the many baskets Ida was repairing. She snatched up the reed and tugged Ida outside, falling to her knees at the nearest patch of sandy soil before she began to trace a large square into it, topped by smaller squares at even intervals. Atop the entire thing, with artistic flourish, she drew the little banners she saw waving from the dark haired woman's castle on windy days.

Ida stared at the picture in the sand before making a noise of recognition. "That's Castle Cousland. You had business with the Teyrna?"

The Teyrna. Leliana nodded fervently, heart thumping loudly in her chest. The Teyrna, at Castle Cousland. Any doubts she felt on the heels of the crippling loss of her voice and the frankly humiliating time she had learning to walk evaporated. Suddenly, she felt so close to her goal she could almost sing.

Almost.

Ida was a kind soul, and the people of the village of Oar's Rest, while curious about her, proved eager to help. The very next day Ida and Leliana were on an ox-cart bound for Highever, which had been an experience in itself: Leliana had never seen oxen before, and stood in awe and maybe a few stirrings of fear when she saw the enormous creatures.

"Don't be afraid," the man who owned the ox-cart said, slapping one of the beasts on its fleshy shoulder. "They're big, but peaceful creatures as any. Unless you're a tuft of grass, that is," he added before chuckling at his own joke.

The road was bumpy but Leliana greatly preferred this to walking the entire way. Since wearing the hodgepodge of donated clothing, walking was proving to be a more formidable challenge, especially because she couldn't look down and see what her feet were doing beneath the heavy skirts.

Up close, Castle Cousland is the largest thing she's ever seen, larger even than the great foreign warship that had sunk to the bottom of the sea decades ago. It's busy, too, with easily ten times as many people as Oar’s Rest all bustling about within the structure. It make her head spin, trying to take it all in.

"Grand, isn't it?" Ida says beside her. She had spent the entire bumpy journey deftly patching a hole in a basket. "Usually I'm only here every few months to deliver the rents, but they know me and we should be able to get an audience with the Teyrna shortly."

Only there's some trouble: The Teyrna can't be spared right away, as the King would be arriving at the castle shortly. The news makes Ida gasp, holding onto her walking stick tightly. Leliana feels her impatience stirring: She's come so far, only to be waylaid by some stupid human king!

In the end, the castle steward acquiesces, allowing them into the castle with the understanding that they may be waiting for some time. Their driver agrees readily, citing business to take care of in the city - supplies to be purchased, produce to be sold. "That means," Ida murmurs to her conspiratorially, when the ox-cart's rumbling down the road once more, "that he'll be holed up in the tavern for hours, gossiping like an old maid."

Leliana can't bring herself to care about the delay. In her chest, her heart is making great leaps as they're shown through the castle, down a series of dizzying corridors between great stone buildings. Were all human dwellings this confusing, this busy? Humans and elves dart to and fro, obviously in a great hurry for something. Leliana doesn't know what, but that doesn't keep her from stopping in her tracks to watch them, often enough that Ida had to grab onto her sleeve and tug her down after the steward.

They're set up in a small chamber with a fire crackling merrily in the stone hearth, with a promise of, "The Teyrna will soon know you're here," from the steward. He shuts the door behind him as Ida heaves herself into a cushioned chair, sighing in contentment next to the fire. Leliana's suddenly too agitated to sit still; she paces the length of the small room back and forth until Ida thumps her cane on the flagstones.

"Maker, have a seat, you're making me dizzy," she says. Leliana shakes her head and continues pacing, pausing only to look out the small glass windows. Ida peers at her curiously. "I wish I knew what business you have with the Teyrna," she muses. "You're worse than a mabari at a rabbit hole."

Leliana doesn't know what a mabari is, nor does she particularly care. Any ounce of assurance she once felt in her plan to see the dark-haired woman as a human, not a sea-person, is rapidly disappearing, replaced by dread.

In truth, she does not know her dark-haired woman, not as she wants to. Like the witch, she's watched her from a distance for several seasons, from the first time she'd caught her eye walking along the cliffs near the castle, a solitary figure infrequently joined by a taller male, similarly dark-haired, or a shorter female. On occasion the dark-haired woman - the Teyrna, she corrects herself - would stroll along the shoreline, pausing every so often to pick up pebbles, which she sent skipping along the water. On her shoreline strolls, Leliana could trail from a distance, staying hidden beneath the crests of the waves and ducking out of sight every time she'd turn to skip a rock. There was something so beautiful about her, strong in that human way, yet woven through with sadness. It wasn't long Leliana wanted to beach herself during the woman's solitary walks, to come out of the water and ease that sadness, somehow.

It had been sheer luck she'd been swimming against the choppy waves, nearby enough on that terrible windy day when the Teyrna had fallen. Leliana cannot think about the awful gash on her head, the way she'd been limp in Leliana's arms. Leliana could not leave her to bleed into the water; darker, sharper things than sea-people knew when there was blood in the ocean. It was worth the risk of discovery, to bring her back to shore, to softly touch her chest to ensure she still breathed.

Now, apart from the sadness and the knowledge that she still lives, Leliana realizes she knows nothing about the Teyrna at all. She could be married - she could have a brood of young humans, Leliana realizes. Briefly she's gripped with the mad urge to run, despite not having quite figured out how to do that yet.

Before she can wobble for the door, there's a startling cacophony that echoes through the castle's corridors, like the rumbling of the ox-cart but sharper, louder. Leliana looks about wildly for the source of the sound.

"Ah," says Ida, looking delighted. "I do believe that is His Majesty."

Leliana returns to pacing again, ignoring the way her legs are starting to get shaky with either nerves or exertion. Shortly thereafter there's the sound of a large group making their way through the corridors, all clanking armor and jovial voices, and at that Ida actually rises and peers through the window, trying to catch a glimpse.

"We've a new King - surely you must have heard, all the way up in the Marches," Ida says. "Coronated on Summerday, apparently he's a very fine lad. My brother fought in Maric's Rebellion; I'm inclined to feel at ease when the country is in Theirin hands."

Leliana nods, not really understanding most of what Ida's saying. It's as Ida muses, "Perhaps he's looking to court the Teyrna for a bride," that Leliana sinks to her knees, frustrated with her inability to voice the groan of despair welling up in her throat.

_No human king could love the Teyrna as I could_ , she wants to cry. _No human king could kiss the sadness from her face as I could, if I had the chance_.

"Poor thing," Ida says, looking at Leliana with pity in her eyes. She hobbles over with her walking stick to give Leliana a grandmotherly pat on the cheek. "I wish you had some way of speaking, so we might know how to help you."

Leliana shakes her head, face in her hands to ward off the tears pricking at her eyes. Perhaps there is no helping her. Perhaps the witch was right and she has been a fool this whole time, from the moment she traded her fins for feet. Ida clicks her tongue, leaning back on her heels.

"Come now, sit up. On the floor is no place to have an audience with the Teyrna."

Leliana sniffs, but she allows Ida to pull her gently back up to her feet, guiding her over to a chair. As soon as she's seated Ida's fussing over her, smoothing her hair where it's been mussed and dabbing at her cheeks with the hem of her skirt. "Truth be told, I'm not certain what to say to the Teyrna myself," she says, while she's fussing. "This is all very unusual. But the Teyrna is a good woman, from a good family, and she just might have the resources to help you overcome your current troubles."

There's no way of telling how much time has passed in the small room, the windows too small and low-set to judge the movement of the sun in the sky. The warmth of the fire and the kindness of Ida's fussing have soothed her into a sleepy sort of lull, the human woman's pleasant meandering chatter about the castle and its noble family tuning into a comfortable drone. But before she can fall asleep in her chair there is a knock at the door, and with a jolt Leliana remembers that she is nervous, so nervous.

"Teyrna Cousland," the steward announces, stepping aside to clear the doorway.

For a moment it is as if Leliana has forgotten to breathe, as if she's drowning on land. The dark-haired woman steps into the little chamber and all Leliana can do is stare. Face to face, she realizes, there are so many details about her that she could not see from a distance, that she didn't notice while pulling her up onto the beach: a shallow scar above her lips, the true shade of her dark hair in the sunlight, that with Leliana's new legs they stand almost of a height.

Next to her, Ida has risen and given as formal of a bow as her cane allows. It snaps Leliana out of her stupor, and she bows as well, grateful she doesn't have to do the complicated formal movement she's seen human ladies do with their skirts and legs. She'd probably trip and fall flat on her face if she had to do that at present.

"My Lady, it is always an honor to see you," says Ida, amazingly calm beside her. "I apologize for the surprise visit, but this is rather....unusual."

The Teyrna nods, but doesn't appear to be absorbing anything that Ida is saying. Her gaze is fixed firmly on Leliana, brow furrowed. Leliana feels as if there's a storm surging within her chest.

"I apologize," the Teyrna says. She sounds befuddled. "Do I....do I know you?"

"That's what we were hoping to find out," Ida says, a note of impatience threading its way into her voice. "She showed up in Oar's Rest three nights ago, out of the blue, with nary a stitch of clothing but a wool cloak on."

The Teyrna drags her gaze away from Leliana, which makes it just a bit easier to breathe. "Thank you, Mayor Stockert. Shall we let her speak for herself?"

Leliana opens her mouth, nearly forgetting herself. At the same time Ida taps her cane on the floor impatiently and interjects, "She _can't_. No voice."

Helpfully, Leliana gestures at her throat. The Teyrna frowns.

"We think she was on a ship that wrecked," Ida continues. "And I'm wagering she's a Marcher - though there's no way of knowing that, really. I can't say if she can read or write, but she drew the castle, which makes me believe she might know you or have some business at Castle Cousland. So, what we came all this way to find out: Do you know her?"

For several long moments, the Teyrna looks her over, considering. Leliana feels her hands begin to shake ever so slightly; she clenches them into fists to stop her quivering.

_You know me_ , she thinks desperately. _It was only a moment, but you saw me_.

But the the dark-haired woman slowly shakes her head, frown deepening. Leliana has seen her wear that expression before, on her solitary walks by the water. It always struck her as sad, that this woman should frown at nothing while walking by herself. "No," the Teyrna says. "For a moment I....there's something familiar about her, to be sure. But I apologize, Mayor, to disappoint you and bring you so far out of your way. I do not know this woman."

Ida looks slightly crestfallen. At the very least, Leliana thinks, Ida wanted to see the mystery solved. "It's all right, my dear," she's starting to say, patting Leliana's hand. This infuses Leliana with a fresh sense of panic: If the Teyrna doesn't recognize her, there is no reason for her to stay in the Castle, and she'll have to return to Oar's Rest with Ida. She opens her mouth, once again forgetting she has no voice to protest, knees turning to jelly beneath her.

"However," the Teyrna says slowly, as if she's turning over her thoughts carefully before voicing them. "Just because I don't recognize her doesn't mean someone else won't. And if her voice is gone by some malady, we have healers who may be able to restore it to her yet."

_Not very likely_ , Leliana thinks, but dares to feel hopeful about what the dark-haired woman is saying.

"If you turn her over to our care at the castle, Mayor, we may be able to heal her, discover her identity, help her," the Teyrna says. "I do not like the idea of a woman wandering alone and friendless in my Teyrnir."

"She has friends in Oar's Rest," Ida says, sounding a hair indignant.

"Of course. We will let you know as soon as this mystery is unravelled," the Teyrna says smoothly. Ida settles slightly, from where she's puffed up like an angry hen. The Teyrna turns to Leliana, the same look of mild confusion passing over her face, as if she's trying and failing to place her within her memories.

"But I do not presume to make decisions for you. Would you like to stay, miss?" she asks. Leliana nods fervently until her neck practically aches. The Teyrna extends a hand, presumably for that strange greeting the humans in Oar's Rest liked to do. Leliana's fingers tremble when she takes it. "I am Teyrna Olympia Cousland, of Highever. You are most welcome here, as my guest, while we discover where you belong."

_Olympia_ , Leliana thinks, in a bit of a daze. She's holding onto her hand maybe longer than she should - a strange human custom, to require touching hands but making rules about how long to do it for. Reluctantly she pulls her hand away, and Olympia returns outside to speak with the steward.

"I'm sorry I couldn't do more to help you, but somehow this seems like the best course of action. And you don't look too unhappy about it," Ida says, smiling at Leliana before pulling her into an embrace. "Voice or no, if you ever find yourself near Oar's Rest, please stop by for a visit."

Leliana nods, taking Ida's hand and squeezing it with as much affection she can convey, before the steward reappears to usher her through the stone corridors, away from Ida and into the unknown.

  
\- -

  
"So has it occurred to you," Rhoswen says, looking highly unimpressed, "that this woman could be dangerous?"

They're taking a cup of tea in Olympia's room, catching a breather before the welcome feast, and Olympia has just finished regaling Rhoswen with the strange tale of the silent redheaded woman. Olympia frowns.

"She doesn't look dangerous."

"I don't look dangerous," Rhoswen points out, and leaves it at that. Olympia shakes her head, rising from her side table to pace the room. Rhoswen takes a sip of her tea, setting the cup back down on its saucer before continuing, "Even if she doesn't _look_ dangerous, the timing is a little convenient. King Alistair arrives at Highever, and the same day a nameless mystery woman who can't speak shows up with no one but the mayor of a backwater fishing village to vouch for her. Doesn't that seem a little odd to you?"

Olympia sighs in frustration. She can feel a headache coming on, and she's not entirely certain it's to do with the injury this time. "I think I would know if she was an assassin. Besides, assassins usually come a little more well-armed. Unless she's capable of killing someone with an ancient tartan skirt, I don't think she's any threat."

"A good assassin could," Rhoswen mutters. Olympia sighs again, turning to her open chest of finer clothing and restlessly digging through its contents, pulling embroidered cloaks and jeweled silks out to throw them on her bed.

"All right," she concedes, after a pointed silence, punctuated only by the soft rustling of fine gowns. "She may be dangerous, even though I feel in my heart she's not. I'll stay between her and the King at all times, if that makes you feel better."

"It doesn't, really," Rhoswen says. "That just means she'd kill you to get to him."

"My point is," Olympia says shortly, holding up a gown in a deep claret red before casting it aside, "there's something about her. Something....different. I almost felt like I knew her, though I know we've never met."

Rhoswen just stares at her, a particular quirk to her ears that means she's absolutely judging her. Olympia feels herself fluster, turning red under Rhoswen's gaze. "It's not just because she's a beautiful woman!" she exclaims, turning her back on her friend to paw through the dresses again.

"I'm sure," Rhoswen says, in the tone of someone who's not convinced at all. "In any case, I suppose we'll just have to see how things go with this beautiful mystery woman over dinner. Be sure to watch your wine glass."

The main hall has been transformed for the King's welcome feast, rows of long cedar tables set down the length of the hall overseen by the Teyrna's table, Olympia seated at its head. As the guest of honor, King Alistair is seated at her left hand, Fergus at her right and Rhoswen next to him. Eamon of Redcliffe is seated one further to her left, at Alistair's side, which Olympia is silently grateful for: She's already dreading the moment where Eamon will corner her and begin discussing marriage arrangements through the thin veil of political alliances, and hopes she can last through this entire visit without being left alone with the King's advisor.

The red-haired mystery woman, taken in by the head chambermaid and presumably scrubbed within an inch of her life, is at the very end of the table next to Rhoswen. Blessedly, the fraying patchwork peasant's clothes have been done away with, replaced by a fine, if slightly outdated, gown of white satin shot through with pink. As if to make her less conspicuous at this table full of Fereldans, someone has had the foresight to braid a lock of her hair, capping it with a plain silver bead. Olympia catches herself staring, and looks away blushing when Rhoswen pointedly catches her eye.

The standard speeches and toasts are made once the wine is poured; the inhabitants of Castle Cousland cheering uproariously when King Alistair rises to speak, holding his goblet aloft.

"I've never been good at speeches," he admits, "but I think that given the occasion, I can spare a few words in appreciation of these fair lands -" (a brief, appreciative smattering of applause) "- fine friends -" (a few cheers erupt, Fergus included; Olympia blushes and looks down at her plate) "and, I don't think I'm getting ahead of myself when I say this, excellent food!" He turns to Olympia, raising his goblet in a toast. "To lovely Highever!"

"To Ferelden," Olympia says, meeting him in the toast. "May she flower under your leadership, your Highness."

There's the bright, loud clamor of goblets knocking together, feastgoers echoing the toasts. Sipping at her wine, Olympia glances to the side - the redheaded woman looks slightly lost, holding up her own cup and drinking from it a moment behind everyone else. But then the first course is served, and Olympia has to look away.

Alistair hadn't in fact gotten ahead of himself: Cook had absolutely outdone herself with the spread, the variety and opulence of which hasn't been seen in the Castle since, Olympia is willing to wager, her own parents' wedding feast. An entire stag has been hunted and roasted for the occasion; it's brought out on a wheeled table with horns still attached, garlands of culinary herbs strung between the antlers. A great tureen of potato soup the size of a bathing tub accompanies it, delicate with dill and creamy butter, and platters of roasted carrots and sprouts, glazed in honey and Antivan vinegar. As the guest of honor it is Alistair's right to carve the stag; he rises from the table and brandishes the carving knife with grace and good humor, making a fair imitation of hunting down the beast himself, setting laughter echoing down the hall, before he carves the first portion from the haunch.

"How has the hunting been, sis?" Fergus asks Olympia, topping up her goblet from a flagon of Antivan white on the table. "Something tells me the King might enjoy chasing a few beasties around the hills during his stay."

"I haven't been able to hunt, of late," Olympia says, sipping her wine. It's sweet and slightly fizzy, perfectly cold. "Somebody has to keep the Teyrnir running."

There's movement to her left; Arl Eamon is leaning in. "Not to mention, you've been recovering, or so we hear," he says. "I wasn't able to say earlier, but allow me to express my profound happiness that you are safe and on the mend, your Ladyship."

"Thank you," she says, raising her goblet in gratitude.

"Pardon my asking, but what precisely happened?" Eamon says, voice mild. Olympia casts a sidelong glance at him before remembering it would not do to be overtly suspicious with the King's advisor. "What I mean to say is, we had only heard that there had been an accident."

"Eamon, I don't think my sister should," Fergus begins, before Olympia cuts across him.

"I fell," she says shortly. "And could have died, but praise the Maker, I did not. That is the extent of it."

Eamon nods gravely, apparently satisfied with her answer - for whatever reason he should be satisfied learning she could have died. Olympia shifts uncomfortably, feeling eyes on her from her right. She turns, expecting to see Rhoswen giving her a pointed look to share, maybe a rolling of eyes since Olympia can't quite do that at present - but she's taken aback to see the silent, redheaded woman staring at her, something huge and unknowable in her gaze.

_There is something she's trying to tell me_ , Olympia thinks with dawning comprehension. But anything further than that is gone, obscured from her, and moments later she is brought back to the present by King Alistair seating himself once more next to her as the servants begin to dish food onto their plates.

For the rest of the feast Olympia feels that she is rather poor company, so preoccupied is she with the enigma of the redheaded woman and just how she's known her. She is certain, now, that she's seen her somewhere - but where? She puzzles through this all throughout the fish course, scarcely tasting the shellfish in garlic wine broth passed down the table, hearing but not registering the lively chatter all around her until Fergus nudges her elbow.

"So," he says, subtly gesturing to the redheaded woman with the hand currently occupied with a crust of bread. "Who is she?"

Olympia bites her lip, wondering how much of the truth she can reveal without worrying him. "A guest," she says cautiously. Alistair passes a dish of buttered peas down the table; she hands it over to Fergus without thinking. "To be honest, I'm not exactly sure who she is, but she wandered into one of the fishing villages with nothing to her name. We think she ran into some sort of distress while traveling."

Fergus makes a thoughtful noise as he chews on his bread. "A maiden in peril, then?"

"You might say that," says Olympia. Another course is being brought out, and Olympia is beginning to lose track of all the dishes despite approving the menu. She sees what appears to be an enormous roasted pumpkin serving as a dish, and can smell roast chicken and thyme wafting from within it. Delicious as it smells, she is starting to get _very_ full.

"Ah," says Fergus, sounding mildly interested. "Whoever she is, you might want to have her switched to water."

Olympia looks down the table just in time to see the redheaded woman drain the goblet in front of her, her plate overflowing with food. Strangely enough, she doesn't seem to be eating too much, but every time her glass is emptied a servant appears to refill it with wine. Her eyes are bright and two red spots are coloring her cheeks.

"Dear Maker," she murmurs, suddenly feeling nervous. "Rhoswen - please tell the servants no more wine for our guest."

"Ouch. She'll be feeling it tomorrow," Alistair says next to her, through a mouthful of potato and onion tart. He pauses, swallowing, and surveys the mountain of food on his own plate. " _I_ will be feeling this tomorrow, who am I kidding? You certainly know how to throw a party, Lady Cousland."

"It's the rain," Rhoswen says, leaning in on Olympia's other side. "When you're stuck indoors all the time, you get very good at cooking."

"Really now?" Alistair says, sounding intrigued. "I've cooked enough to know there's no hope for me, unless you really enjoy traditional hearty Fereldan food. By that, I mean grey slop. Grey slop is really my speciality."

Rhoswen's laugh borders on a giggle, and both Olympia and Fergus turn as one to look at her. The elf clears her throat, clearly attempting to sober herself. "Is this true, Fergus?"

"Unfortunately," Fergus says darkly. "Poor Eamon was one laid up for three days after eating Alistair's cooking."

"A fine birthday gift," Eamon says dryly. Alistair laughs sheepishly, reaching over to refill Eamon's glass.

"Well, weather depending, we'll see if my culinary horizons can be broadened," he says. "Perhaps Lady Mahariel will agree to be the taster, seeing as how she brought this up in the first place."

"Find someone else to poison," Olympia says, hoping Alistair can tell she's teasing. "I happen to need my friend."

  
By the time the showstopping dessert is brought out - a miniature of the Royal Palace in Denerim done in pie pastry, stuffed with wine-simmered fruits and nuts and dusted with sparkling sugar, accompanied by a platter of cheeses and grapes that makes Alistair sit up a bit straighter in his chair - the conversation in the hall has lulled to a comfortable, steady roar. Olympia sits back in her chair, mostly full but content to listen to Rhoswen and Alistair banter back and forth, Fergus joining in at strategic moments while Eamon occasionally chimes in with a dry remark. Every few moments she steals a glance to the woman at the end of the table, who hasn't eaten much of anything at all, and who she's sure keeps staring at her in return.

For a moment Rhoswen's warning from earlier comes back to haunt her - fear of poison at the forefront of her mind - before she dismisses the thought, feeling ridiculous and a little hazy from the wine. No assassin would get as tipsy on wine as this woman has, and wouldn't have had the opportunity to visit the kitchens and doctor the food. Perhaps, she thinks, this woman is of a more delicate constitution and simply cannot handle rich Fereldan food. She certainly wouldn't be the first foreigner to leave their plate mostly full at a Fereldan dinner, Olympia knows.

Even as the feast itself is winding down, Olympia knows the drinking and chatter will continue long into the night. Fergus looks half-asleep and even Alistair is beginning to yawn. "Shall we make our excuses, then?" she asks the table at large.

"A marvelous idea," says Fergus, rising. "Hopefully we won't have to send the heavier drinkers any stern notes telling them to keep it down."

Alistair and Eamon rise to leave; Olympia is stuffed to the gills and pleasantly warm and flushed with wine, thinking privately that she just may burst out of the seams of her gown as she stands and begins making her way to the doors at the side of the hall, waving off the other diners as they've risen to see her out. Fergus splits away to escort Alistair back to the guest chambers, bidding her and Rhoswen a quick good-night.

Just as she's almost out of the door, the pleasant chatter in the hall suddenly hushes just as there's a solid _thump_ just behind her; she spins to see the redheaded woman sprawled on the flagstones, a healthy tear in the skirts of her gown.

"Oh," Olympia says, and before she knows what she's doing she's kneeling on the ground next to her, one hand on her back, the other extended for her to take.

"Are you all right?" she asks, feeling something in her heart twist when she sees the woman's chin wobble before she steels herself, though she winces as her scraped palm is taken in Olympia's hand. "It's all right, here - let me help you."

She helps her rise, offering her arm for her to lean unsteadily on while they walk. Olympia has never seen a person so unstable on their feet after wine; it is as if she's relearning how to walk with each step. Rhoswen is waiting for them in the corridor, looking curious at the goings-on.

"Is everything okay?" she asks. Olympia nods.

"Just a bit too much of the Antivan vintage, I think we've all been there before. Go on ahead, I'll make sure she gets to her room safely."

"If you say so," Rhoswen says, a note of skepticism in her voice before she turns to walk down the corridor to the bedchamber wing, hair glinting burnished tones like autumn leaves in the light of the torches lining the way.

It is very cold out, the night frosty with a brisk breeze that stirs the hem of Olympia's skirts. Belatedly she remembers the woman's gown is torn, and pats her arm gently. "Let's get you back, then."

Unsurprisingly, the woman is silent as they walk - she's been put up in a small bedroom off of the servant's quarters that used to belong to an old lady-in-waiting of her grandmother's, but since has been used mostly to accommodate the servants of visiting guests. Thankfully, the servants have seen to lighting the fire and turning down the sheets; there's even a clean white nightdress draped at the foot of the bed. Olympia guides the woman in and closes the door behind them, to keep out the cold.

For a long, awkward moment, Olympia is frozen. There's nothing she can think to say or do, and briefly she is gripped with the urge to go right back out that door and leave. She turns from the door back towards the room, and startles when suddenly the redheaded woman is right in front of her.

"Maker," she says, a bit breathlessly. "You snuck up on me. Not many people besides Fergus can do that."

The woman is looking at her with that same expression she wore back in the main hall, the one that makes Olympia feel as if she's teetering on the edge of some unfathomable void. Olympia can hear her breathing - a soft sigh, which is perhaps the first real noise she's heard from her.

"How is your hand?" she asks, pulling herself away from where she's beginning to fall into the woman's eyes. The woman glances down at her hand, then shrugs, shaking her head.

"You're bleeding," Olympia says firmly. "Here, take a seat, let me -"

She hunts about the room until she discovers clean flannels next to the bowl and pitcher on the wash stand and soaks one with lukewarm water. When she turns back around the woman is sitting on the bed, just looking at her, something like yearning on her face. No one has ever looked at Olympia like that - like she's something precious to be held, rather than a possession to be won over.

Olympia swallows nervously. "Here," she says, kneeling down and turning one bloodied hand palm-up. When she presses the flannel to it the woman inhales sharply, but doesn't fight her as she dabs the blood away.

"I wish," Olympia says absently, talking to cover her nerves as she gently cleans the scrapes, "that I knew something about you. Anything, really. A name would be a good start, I think."

The woman's expression becomes conflicted for a moment, as if she is thinking a great deal of wildly differing thoughts. Olympia rises to rinse out the flannel, squeezing the excess water from it.

"I could guess," she says, to fill the silence. "Though we might be here for a while, and I should warn you I'm not the most patient with guessing games."

The woman tilts her head to the side, as if in agreement. Olympia returns to clean her other hand, gentling her touches when the woman inhales and flinches again, all the while trying not to reveal how loudly her heart is suddenly pounding.

"We'll figure it out, I'm sure," she says at last, with one last pass of the cloth. The scrapes are not too severe, thank the Maker, but the heels of her hands will likely bruise from the impact on the stone floor. She's just about to pull away and stand again, make her excuses and leave when the other woman raises her hand to Olympia's face, cupping her cheek with almost unfathomable tenderness.

  
\- -

  
Olympia wakes early the next morning to the sound of raindrops on the roof and a half-remembered song at the forefront of her mind. She rolls over in bed, pulling the pillow over her head and scrunching it around her ears. It’s maddening, having the music so close it was within reach, but being unable to put a name to the tune or words to the melody - so close, but always just too far away. In the end, she resorts to humming a few flat bars of "Andraste's Mabari" to put it from her head, lest she dwell on it all day.

"It seems you were right about the weather," she comments to Rhoswen over breakfast.

Rhoswen feigns a look of surprise, the corner of her mouth twitching while she drizzles honey on her porridge. "Wow, I was, huh? You'd almost think elves had some sort of weird connection with nature, right?"

Olympia snorts, stirring her own porridge and watching the little pat of butter on top melt, dissolving into the rest of the bowl. Under the table, Loki whines until at last she submits and passes him a chewy morsel of bacon fat.

"That's not good for him," says Fergus from behind her. He strides up and seats himself, pulling slices of toast from the breadbasket in the middle of the table. "Truthfully I don't think it's good for either of you, letting him think he's got the power to boss you around."

"You say that as if I don't know you're going to be feeding him half your breakfast anyway," Olympia points out. Fergus laughs, reaching under the table to stroke the top of Loki's head.

"She's onto us, boy," he says conspiratorially, to which Loki _whuffs_ in response. Olympia rolls her eyes, pouring Fergus a cup of tea and passing it over. He sips it gratefully, eyes closed. "Thank you, sis. It's very, very much appreciated."

"A little worse for the wear, eh?" Rhoswen asks slyly, sitting back in her chair. Fergus shrugs.

"No worse than his Majesty," he says, downing the rest of the cup and passing it back over, making sad eyes at Olympia until she refills it. "Or, I suspect, no worse than that lovely red-haired lady at the end of the table who drinks like a fish."

Olympia feels herself turn red; she shoves the teacup back at Fergus and begins eating her porridge, scraping the spoon against the bowl as loud as she can. "Where is His Majesty?" she asks between mouthfuls.

"He and Eamon are taking their breakfast in Alistair's chambers, going over correspondence and dispatches we couldn't get to on the road," Fergus says. He reaches for the little urn of jelly on the table and promptly pours half the contents onto a wedge of toast. "You'd better warn Cook," he says, sighing rapturously before sinking his teeth in. "I'm taking her entire stock of gooseberry preserves when we leave." He considers what's left of the toast before stuffing the entire thing into his mouth.

"So you can eat this way in front of all the fancy nobles?" Olympia asks incredulously. "I think not."

"I dunno," Rhoswen muses, watching him reach for another slice of toast to drown in jelly. "It might be worth it just to hear about the Orlesian ambassadors respond to his table manners."

Even though the King is visiting and what must be half the castle is still suffering from the excesses of last night, there are the duties of a Teyrna that Olympia must see to. The King's own workload provides enough time for her to slip away to her desk and the unopened stack of letters, missives, and complaints that arrive at Castle Cousland daily from all over the Teyrnir. Usually she doesn't mind her daily paperwork though there is the slight sting of betrayal today - Loki abandoned her at the breakfast table to go with Fergus, who rose stretching and mumbling something about a nap.

Perhaps it's better, she thinks, breaking the seal on one letter and glancing over it. A plea from a lesser bann, begging her to do something about highwaymen in his bannorn. Another envelope from Amaranthine - Nathaniel Howe regretfully informing her that their yearly Satinalia plans would have to be postponed due to his sister's confinement. Olympia makes a mental note to pen a brief response congratulating him on his imminent unclehood, before opening another letter, this time from a trade guild. And another letter, imploring her to settle a family matter of inheritance. And another, and another....

In the whirlwind of letters and queries she loses track of time, until a soft knock on the door to her chamber brings her out of her head. She sets her quill down, stretching to relieve the ache in her shoulders, and shaking out the cramp in her wrist. "Yes?"

She expects it to be Rhoswen, poking her head in and perhaps asking if she's ready for luncheon; with a sinking sense of dismay she sees Arl Eamon enter her study. She's been expecting this moment since the moment the King arrived yesterday, but that doesn't make the thought of the pending conversation any more appealing. _Best to get it over with_ , she thinks, and plasters on a mild smile.

"Arl Eamon, please, have a seat," she says, gesturing to the chair opposite her desk. "I'm afraid you caught me in the middle of some administrative work - you know how it is, I'm sure."

"Oh, don't I just," Eamon says, with a sort of sympathetic weariness. "If you're in the middle of anything crucial, I can return, of course."

"You're not," she says, gesturing again. At last he sits, looking more at home in her study than any guest should have right to. She sets down her quill, sitting back in her chair and sizing him up as he is clearly sizing her up. "I hope your rooms are to your liking?" she inquires politely, finally.

Eamon nods. "Your hospitality is impeccable, Lady Cousland, you needn't worry yourself about that. I am very comfortable so far."

"Ah," she says. "And what do I need to concern myself with, then?"

A shrewd look passes over the older man's face. "You are very canny," he says, a note of appraisal in his voice. "King Alistair has yet to tease out what's left unsaid from what has been said, but it appears you are already a master of that."

Olympia inclines her head ever so slightly. "I am nothing if not my mother's daughter."

To her surprise, Eamon rises from the chair to pace by the bookshelves lining the wall near the window. They're sparse, compared to the library's collection - a few books from her mother's seafaring days, old records of the Cousland lands and estates, genealogies and ledgers of taxes paid and expenses rendered. Eamon considers an old journal kept by a great-great-something or other, pulling it off the shelf. "You are a lovely young woman of great distinction," he says, turning a page. "I confess I am surprised that you are not already married, as your brother is."

She has to hand it to him - Eamon doesn't appear to dance around matters. "My duties as Teyrna keep me too occupied to even consider marriage," she says, trying to keep her irritation from bleeding into her voice.

"You're not lacking suitors, I imagine," Eamon says mildly, turning another page of old script.

"Apparently not," Olympia says. "And my answer to all of them has remained the same: I am not interested."

Eamon makes a considering noise, scrolling through the old book. "I see," he says. "It is not unusual, then -"

"What," Olympia says shortly.

"That you would seek companionship elsewhere. Though I must say, an elf is -"

"Rhoswen is my closest friend, and like a sister to me," Olympia speaks over him, wondering how long he'll test her before she well and truly loses her patience. "And before you say anything else about her, I would implore you to consider your words very carefully."

Eamon merely nods, raising a hand in a gesture of peace. "She is a very charming girl," he concedes. "And if that is the way of things, then therein lies what I worry about."

"Which is?"

"A matter of duty," Eamon says, looking pointedly to the work piled on Olympia's desk. "You understand, I presume, what happens when someone shirks their duty."

Olympia rises from her chair, locking eyes with him. She hasn't been this angry in some time, her extremities feel hot with rage. "I apologize, Arl Eamon," she says coldly. "I have paperwork to finish."

"Of course," he says, inclining his head. "I will take my leave of you - though I do hope you'll let me borrow this; Everard Cousland had fascinating views of taxation on trades between bannorns."

"By all means," Olympia says, still icy.

"Have a pleasant afternoon, your Ladyship," Eamon says on his way out the door. Olympia resists the urge to throw something at it after it closes behind him, and for several long moments she can only clench her fists and grit her teeth, trying to keep her vision from turning a deeper shade of red.

Eamon is not a stupid man - but even a stupid man could look at Alistair and Rhoswen and tell that they fancy each other. Truly, she can see no harm in it, if it progressed to anything. Even kings deserve happiness, she thinks, regardless of who it was with. Plenty of nobles saw to their duties and found room for happiness, no matter what stodgy old bastards like Eamon thought they ought to do. _No_ , she thinks, shaking her head. For the rest of the visit, she would not allow Eamon to engage her thusly, waxing on about duties, insulting her friend and hounding her about what he thought _her_ duties should be. She’s the Teyrna of Highever, and even though he’s the King's Advisor, she refuses to bend to his will.

She remains tense and surly for the rest of the afternoon, through her paperwork and an awkward lunch wherein Rhoswen and Alistair did most of the talking while she stared into her bowl to steadfastly ignore Eamon at the other end of the table. _Maker, this is going to be a long visit_ , she thinks, rising and heading for the door.

Despite the rain and wind lashing at her through her cloak, she decides she needs a walk. She pulls the hood of her cloak up and tightens the ties against the wind, heading for the servants exit toward the back of the castle. The less people know about her walking along the same cliffs where she took her tumble the better.

Castle Cousland does not directly butt up to the seaside cliffs; a small thicket of woods and muddy paths separates them - not to mention the gardens directly outside of the kitchen wall, which she passes, the very air around them smelling of rosemary and rain. There is enough weak winter sunlight left that she can walk down to the cliffs and meander for a bit before nightfall. Hopefully by then her head will be clear.

The wind has whipped the ocean into white-capped swells; they crash onto the cliffsides with a thunder that nearly shakes the ground beneath her feet as she nears the overlook. It howls in her ears, and for a few moments that is enough: picturing her cares, her stupid discussion with Eamon drifting away from her and being carried away, out over the stormy sea. It gives her the first real sense of peace she's had all day, so easy to forget trouble and duty when she could instead stare at the hypnotic rise and fall of the waves, lose herself in the rhythmic pounding of the surf.

So lost is she in her thoughts that she scarcely notices the footsteps behind her until she feels the hand on her shoulder.

"Dear Maker!" she exclaims, whirling around, ready to strike at a moment's notice - before she sees it is the redheaded woman, hair dripping into her eyes. Olympia exhales a sigh of relief. "Once again you've gotten the better of me, it's unnerving."

The woman shakes her head, wide-eyed. Her hand tightens on Olympia's shoulder, and alarm flares within Olympia once more.

"Is something wrong?" she asks. The woman doesn't indicate yes or no - she pointedly looks past Olympia to the edge of the cliff and pulls her shoulder back, as if she's trying to drag Olympia along. For once, the Teyrna lets herself be moved.

"So you heard about my little tumble," she muses, following the woman back about twenty paces. "All right, though I should protest that I was in no danger of falling this time."

The woman frowns as if to say she's unconvinced, but she releases Olympia's shoulder. It's just then Olympia notices she's wearing no cloak, no hood, just a winter-weight dress of dark blue that is becoming rapidly soaked through.

"You must be freezing," she says. It's her turn to frown. "Did you follow me out?"

The woman hesitates and then nods once. "Were you concerned I would fall again?" Olympia asks, and earns another, more fervent nod. Before Olympia knows what she's doing, she's undoing the ties of her cloak and pushing the hood back. The woman only watches her, that same unfathomable look in her eyes, as she wraps the cloak around her shoulders and fastens it neatly under her chin. She cannot tell if her fingers are trembling from the cold or the sudden proximity.

"That was foolish," she admonishes gently, pulling on the cloak ties to ensure they'll hold fast. "You'll catch your death of cold out here - and don't look at me like that, I've been weathering the Highever winters since I was a babe." She pulls the hood over already-dripping copper hair. "Come, let's go back inside and get the both of us to a fire."

Of course, the woman remains silent on the path back, but the quiet isn't awkward or uncomfortable. And the woman walks at her side, falling behind on occasion as she frees the heels of her shoes from gouts of mud, while Olympia pauses so she can catch up though she can feel her own dress starting to stick cold and wet to her skin. By the time they're back at the castle, the edges of her sleeves are dripping.

"Well now," she says. "Not the way I pictured my walk ending, but I....thank you for looking after me, and making sure I was all right. Somehow I don't think I'd have been as willing to come back if it had been Rhoswen or Fergus come to fuss over me."

The woman's cheeks are pink as she gives Olympia a smile, and the Teyrna suspects it's not entirely due to the cold wind. She coughs, hoping that Rhoswen isn't lurking around a corner and watching. "Let's both go get some dry clothes on," she says, "and then I'll try to suss out your name and see where you're from. The library is just by the Main Hall. Yes?"

The redheaded woman nods again, and begins to undo the ties for the cloak, but stops when Olympia shakes her head. "No, please keep it. I don't want to be responsible for you catching cold. I insist," she adds, when the woman undoes the knot and makes to hand it to her.

It's dark by the time Olympia is dry and in a clean change of clothes, and for a moment she feels something within her give a strange quiver. Perhaps she's going about this entirely the wrong way? Perhaps the library is too intimate, perhaps the woman will realize this and not show up at all - perhaps she is only imagining the tenderness in the other woman's eyes after all.

"You're being a ninny," she tells her reflection in the mirror, fastening her plaidweave wrap with an heirloom brooch and frowning at herself for good measure. She makes herself leave her chambers - if she didn't, she knows she'd end up stalling to fret, and make the poor woman wait in the library for hours.

There's no one there when she opens the door, though the servants have lit the lanterns on the wall, ensconced in glass housings well away from the books. The light is enough to read by, though a bit dim, and once again Olympia has to reprimand herself for getting the collywobbles. Maker, she's just helping this mystery lady, nothing untoward.

She's pulled every book of Marcher peerage and genealogy off of the shelves, and a few compendiums of Orlesian and Tevinter nobility as well, when the woman arrives. Her hair isn't quite dry, and curls down her back in waves that glint like fire in the candlelight. Olympia feels her mouth go dry.

"It's a start," she says, gesturing at the books. The woman hesitates at the door, eyes wide as she takes in the room - shelves upon shelves of books, portraits and maps lining the walls, the tapestry of Cousland heraldy taking pride of place over the mantelpiece. "It's a lot to take in, I know," she says, watching the way her eyes wander about the room. "We have the largest collection of books in the Teyrnir, unless Nathaniel Howe has suddenly taken up an interest in collecting."

She lets the woman look about, beginning to page through the first book of Marcher peerage. "I thought we might start with Kirkwall, because that was the direction you pointed in," she says, as the woman wanders over to her table and seats herself in the nearest chair. "You're, ah - an Amell?" A shake of the head. "A Carrac? a de Launcet?" Both are negatives, and Olympia feels the first stirrings of frustration. She sets the book aside.

"Perhaps," she says, "we might try starting with your first name." The woman nods. "Agnes? No. Uhm..." For a moment, Olympia wracks her brain but can only summon standard Fereldan names. "Solona? No. Elissa? All right, not that either. Mildred?" The woman makes a face, and Olympia laughs despite herself. "Definitely not that, then." She lifts _Brother Giles' Peerage_ and lets it fall open to a random page. "Rose?" she guesses, for it's the first name on the page, and that makes the woman consider something. "All right, not Rose. Another name that begins with R?" She shakes her head. Olympia frowns. This is more frustrating than she thought it would be, and she knew going into it that she has no head for guessing games.

But the woman makes a little motion with her hands, as if encouraging Olympia down a path. "Rose....more flowers?" Olympia hazards. The woman nods, which is heartening. "Daisy? Not Petunia, surely?" Another face. "Buttercup? Columbine?" Both negatives. Olympia sits back in her chair, wondering if she shouldn't have just grabbed a gardening manual off the shelf to begin with. "Jasmine. Lavender. Lily?"

The woman nods, and for a second Olympia feels like leaping up and punching her fist upwards in victory, before the woman makes that same circling motion with her hand. Apparently she's not done. "Lily? Lily what?"

Shaking her head, the woman leans in closer, pointing at her lips. Very slowly she mouths syllables; Olympia can see her tongue click silently as she forms the ls. "Not li....la - no, not la," she adds, when the woman shakes her head and starts over. "Leli - is that right? An e instead?" The woman nods again, smiling now, and forms two more syllables - the slight lift of her lips indicating an ah sound - Le-li-ah-

"Leliana?" Olympia says, after a moment's pause, and the woman practically _explodes_ with joy, nearly leaping across into Olympia's lap in an embrace. "Steady!" Olympia exclaims, unable to keep herself from smiling as well. "Leliana. A touch Orlesian, but lovely. _Leliana_ ," she says again, puzzling it out on her tongue. "Well, that's one down. A surname, Leliana?"

Leliana shakes her head again, and Olympia's brow furrows. "No family name? Puzzling, for sure. Perhaps, then, we can find where you belong over here." Olympia rises and approaches the largest map on the wall, the one that covers all of known Thedas. She reaches up to a coastline and taps.

"Ah, for once Brother Aldous' geography lessons have come in handy. Here's Highever, where we stand now. And I am fairly certain you're not from Par Vollen or Seheron. Could you point to where you came from?"

Leliana's eyes follow her finger where she's pointing at a little curve of coastline on the map, bordered by a mass of blue-inked ocean. For a moment Leliana hesitates, glancing at Olympia from the corner of her eye, before reaching up and tapping in the area marked as The Waking Sea.

Olympia feels something like shock jolt through her; she drops her hand and for a moment it's all she can do to stare at Leliana, a thousand questions on the tip of her tongue. All she can manage is, "The middle of the ocean? Are you sure?"

Leliana nods. There is nothing of madness nor confusion in her eyes, no shifty avoidance that Olympia would take to mean a lie. No, Olympia is sure Leliana has told the truth as she knows it - and the implications of that border on unthinkable.

  
\- -

  
The week passes in an unceasing drizzle of chilly rain and winds that lash at anyone who dared venture outside, and though more confident in her land legs, Leliana yearns for the water. Her people called it _wild weather_ , and while most would take shelter in their kelp forests, the more adventurous would take to the swells, riding out each enormous wave for the sheer exhilaration of surviving the ocean's crushing arms.

It was during the wild weather she first saw the witch, she remembers. She wonders what the witch would be doing - if the witch is in possession of her voice, or if it's gone entirely, lost to the magic.

It doesn't matter. Though the elf - Rhoswen - still sometimes looks at her with mild suspicion, and Olympia's brother obviously cannot tell what to make of her, Olympia knows her, knows her name, and makes a point to see her every day.

Presumably, it is because Leliana is a guest, and Olympia is nothing if not a gracious host. But Leliana can't help but think there is something more to it, perhaps. She desires, but does not dare hope that Olympia seek her out for companionship, for comfort, or to explore the connection she's sure Olympia feels too, the one she silently implores her to recall whenever they're in the same room.

_You know me_ , she thinks when Olympia is near, even if her attention is elsewhere. _You know me, and I love you_.

Olympia makes no indication that she recognizes Leliana's true nature, despite Leliana being fairly obvious in explaining where she came from. When confronted with legend, she concludes, humans must be purposefully thick. But she cannot begrudge the woman she loves her obtuseness, especially when so much is occupying her. Her attention is....frequently elsewhere. Leliana wishes she could help, somehow.

The human king is a pleasant sort, which initially surprised her. She treated him with silent suspicion for a day or two before the realization that he holds no romantic interest in Olympia dawned on her; instead, it amuses her to sit in one of the castle's drawing rooms with Rhoswen and Olympia and her brother, playing cards with the king and watching the elf and the human king flirt rather transparently. More than once Olympia has met her eyes over a hand of cards and rolled her eyes at something flirtatious and silly the king has just said, which makes her flush and silently giggle herself.

The king's advisor, on the other hand....

"Maker's breath," Olympia snarls. Leliana and Rhoswen jump when the Teyrna kicks the library door shut behind her, stalking into the room in a swirl of bad temper. "The moment that that man leaves my home won't be a moment too soon."

"What's he done now?" Rhoswen asks, setting her quill down. Leliana rises, wondering if she should approach Olympia in this state, and is glad she does. Olympia's eyes are closed as she pinches the bridge of her nose, scowling, but her face softens when Leliana puts a gentle hand on her arm.

"I am sorry, my lady," Olympia says, still frowning a little. There's tension all throughout her body, her shoulders tight with it, and Leliana wants nothing more than to kiss away the frustration wrinkling her brow. She settles for patting Olympia on the arm before returning to her seat at the library table, hoping the Teyrna will follow.

"Firstly," Olympia tells Rhoswen, pulling her own chair out and heaving herself into it, "the man has a nasty habit of popping up when I least want to see him."

"You never want to see him," Rhoswen points out evenly. Olympia tilts her head back, sighing.

"Precisely. Secondly, he's started using my brother as a pawn in his argument 'Why Olympia Cousland Should Marry King Alistair.'"

Rhoswen's eyebrows shoot up. "He has not."

"Oh, he has." Olympia closes her eyes and lowers her voice in a bad approximation of Eamon. "'I'm certain your Ladyship tires of the distance between you and your brother while he's in Denerim,' and, 'you know, Ser Fergus was just commenting the other morning that he wished he could see you more often.'" She makes a small noise of frustration, eyes still closed.

Leliana looks between her and Rhoswen, who's taken up her quill again is currently writing while she considers. "It's almost as if he thinks you don't have a teyrnir to run," she says at last.

Olympia makes another soft growl, opening her eyes. "For all he speaks to me of duty," she begins, and then stops herself short. She raises her head and looks at Leliana, apology in her eyes. "I'm sorry, Leliana," she says. "We shouldn't burden you with this, you're a guest and it reflects poorly on us."

Leliana shakes her head. How can she communicate that she'll gladly share Olympia's burdens if it lessens the tension in her frame, if it eases her into a smile? Leliana crashes against the wall of her muteness, wishing so badly to be able to murmur some modicum of comfort. In the end, she has to settle for giving Olympia a smile, as if to say, _it is no burden_.

"In any case," Rhoswen says, dipping her quill into the inkwell by the lantern on the table, "you'll be happy to know that the weather's going to let up soon."

"Thank the Maker for that," says Olympia. "It'll be easier to avoid Eamon when I'm not trapped inside."

Rhoswen purses her lips in a way that Leliana's come to realize means she's considering saying something. Olympia seems to have noticed too; she sits up straighter and peers curiously at her friend. "What are you sitting on?"

"A chair," Rhoswen says. Olympia rolls her eyes, huffing a little.

"What I mean to say is, what are you not saying?"

Rhoswen taps off the excess ink on her quill, considering for a moment before she sets it down entirely. Her slender fingers drum unevenly on the wooden tabletop. "It might be easier to keep Eamon quiet by keeping him distracted," she says at last. "Alistair has been lamenting that it's been too rainy to hunt -"

"I thought you were mentoring him in the fine arts of whiling away a rainy afternoon?" Olympia says pointedly, raising her eyebrows. To her credit, Rhoswen only blushes a little.

"There are only so many card games you can play before you start to get bored of not cheating due to the company," she says. "But I was thinking, with the break in the weather coming, it would be a good way to keep Eamon out of your hair. He can't badger you about marrying the king if he's too busy chasing after deer, right?"

Olympia falls silent, her brow furrowed in the way that means she's thinking furiously. "With any luck," she says, sounding a touch sour, "I'll get lucky and he'll fall off his horse."

  
\- -

  
True to Rhoswen's word, the rain abates overnight, and by the next morning the clouds no longer hang so heavily in the sky, stirred eastward by a crisp breeze that opens up patches of weak sunlight in the sky. The entire castle seems to heave a sigh of relief stepping foot outside for breakfast, and Olympia dines to the background noise of an excited King Alistair questioning Fergus and Rhoswen about the local game.

"It's deer, mostly," Fergus says, drizzling honey over his porridge. "Rams, too. Bear and boar if you're up for more of a challenge."

"Or," Rhoswen adds, "the greatest challenge of all: The most dangerous prey, the common nug, can be found all over the coastal hills."

"Maker!" Alistair exclaims, grabbing his heart with overexaggerated drama. "I can hear the squeaking now! You'll have to protect me, Lady Rhoswen, even I can't face a foe that deadly. Ferelden might be left without a king if we encounter a ravenous pack of nugs on the hunt."

At the end of the breakfast table, Eamon has looked up sharply. "I would not advise talking about leaving Ferelden kingless, even in jest," he says, glowering over his bowl. Olympia purses her lips, hating the way Alistair and Rhoswen look chastened.

"At any rate," Fergus says smoothly, glancing between the advisor and the king, "everything in the forest is probably coming out of hiding after the storm, so the sooner we can leave for the hunt, the better."

It's not even midmorning by the time they've armed and saddled up, Alistair and Eamon on two sturdy colts from the stables more accustomed to the hilly terrain of Highever than their fine chargers. Rhoswen has strung and freshly waxed her bow; she shoots Olympia a cheeky grin as she swings into her mare's saddle, sticking out her tongue and rolling her eyes behind Eamon's back when they hear the advisor chide Alistair to exercise caution on the hunt.

"The only thing you'll catch while hunting with caution and restraint is boredom," Fergus says under his breath, leading his own horse closer to her and Rhoswen. Olympia has to cough to cover her snort, ducking her head to check the tightness on her hunter's girth band.

"Ah," Rhoswen says brightly behind her. "There you are, I was beginning to wonder if you weren't going to come after all."

Olympia turns to see Leliana emerging from the main hall, looking very out of her element, from the awkward steps she takes in her leather riding breeches to the nervous looks she keeps casting around at all the hunters. Loki gives a great booming bark and bounds up to the redheaded woman, licking happily at her hand, which seems to give her some solace. Olympia is stricken with confusion, until she sees Fergus lead up one of the more sedate horses, already saddled and tacked. She frowns slightly, handing her hunter's reins off to a stablehand and approaching Leliana.

"I wasn't aware you were coming," she says, and for a moment Leliana's face falls. It hits Olympia like a kick to the gut. "I mean," she adds, "I didn't know you hunted, Leliana."

Leliana looks about at the hustle and bustle of the hunting party - Loki rejoining the small pack of hunting hounds all eagerly barking and yipping, the assembly of riders chatting amiably and peering up at the sky to see if the weather will hold, the servants milling about on their pack horses with boar spears, spare arrow quivers, and baskets of supplies. Then she looks back at Olympia and gives a tiny shake of her head as if to say, _I don't_.

"You don't have to come if you don't wish to," Olympia offers gently, reaching out to place a friendly hand on Leliana's shoulder. She can feel Rhoswen's gaze piercing through the back of her head as her hand rests on Leliana's (presumably borrowed) hunting jacket.

For another moment, Leliana looks overwhelmed, before she shakes her head more firmly and takes the reins Fergus is offering. It is painfully obvious she has no idea what to do with the horse, and Olympia takes a moment to help get her situated, giving Leliana a boost into the saddle and lengthening the stirrup leathers for her. Finally, she reaches up and readjusts Leliana's grip on the reins, moving her loose fingers until the horse has firm direction, and curling her hands over Leliana's until her grip is tight enough that she won't lose control the first time she gains speed.

"Are we quite ready?" Eamon asks mildly from atop his hunter. Olympia freezes, suddenly aware that everyone is watching her, aware that her hands are still on Leliana's. "The day will be half-gone before we get underway."

_To the Void with the old man_ , Olympia thinks, and gives Leliana as much of a smile as she dares. "It will be good to have you along," she says at last, releasing those soft hands. "If you feel you can't keep up with the hunt, the servants will be trailing a ways behind and will take care of you."

Rhoswen's eyebrows are practically at her hairline as Olympia mounts her own horse, stepping ahead to the front of the hunting party. She can feel a hot blush creeping up her cheeks and the back of her neck; she resolutely ignores Fergus' curious gaze and Eamon's pointed look. "Shall we get underway, Your Highness?" she asks Alistair, whose bay is practically dancing in place with eagerness to move. "Arl Eamon was just expressing his dismay that the game may be gone by the time we decide to leave."

Alistar catches her eye, eyes twinkling though his smile is a practiced sort of modest. "By all means, we can't disappoint both the deer and our good friend Eamon in one fell swoop."

Olympia's mare breaks into a trot with only a gentle tapping of her heels; at the head of the party, she can hear the clatter of hooves on cobblestones and the barking of the dogs whipping up into an eager frenzy as they depart. Past the gates of the castle she hits a gentle canter, Alistair matching her for pace and laughing, and soon enough Rhoswen's speedy dappled mare has caught her up to the both of them. She catches both Olympia and Alistair's eyes, another mischievous grin their only warning before she taps her heels into the horse's sides and surges ahead, an unspoken challenge.

For a moment, cold wind in her face and nothing but the pounding of hooves to echo her heartbeat, Olympia feels a jolt of a fierce and wild joy, letting her horse take the rein and letting her cares dissolve into the race, the tantalizing thrill of the hunt just within reach. For a moment, it is as if there is no Eamon, no pressures of duty, no jittering warmth that awakens whenever Leliana meets her eyes, a sensation that terrifies her as much as it delights.

Beneath her horse's hooves the road begins to fade into grass at the edges, starts to wind between stoic pines before finally dissipating all together. Rhoswen slows her mare gradually, picking her way between the thickening trees with grace and ease. She can see Rhoswen scanning their surroundings as the rest of the party begins to catch up, the hounds roiling with joy, tongues lolling red as they pant.

"No deer recently," Rhoswen finally says, walking her horse back over to Olympia and Alistair. "There's a route down the next stretch of hills towards the coast; bears usually fish in the stream that runs through them, if you'd like."

"I don't think," Eamon begins, before Alistair laughs.

"I think we have a bear of our own right here," he says. Rhoswen coughs to avoid overtly laughing. "Oh, do cheer up and try to have a good time, Eamon."

"Shall we get a move on, then?" Alistair asks Rhoswen, who clicks her tongue and leads the way. Her eyes are surer and instincts honed enough to scout ahead, choosing the most stable ground for the group to follow safely on.

Hurriedly, Olympia casts a glance to the back of their group, suddenly feeling contrite. Leliana had no experience with horses, she'd bet; it was unfair of them to expect her to keep up with a full-tilt gallop. But there she was, hands white on the leather reins, looking windblown and perhaps a little shaky - but not scared, not by any stretch of the imagination. Thrilled, perhaps.

Hanging to the side, Olympia lets the rest of the party follow Rhoswen down the path she makes, until at last there are just the servants on their pack horses and Leliana at the tail of the group. Matching the steady pace of Leliana's horse is easy, and the way the redheaded woman looks at her as they slowly trail behind makes her heart start pacing double-time.

"How are you holding up?" asks Olympia, taking her eyes off her horse's path long enough to see how she reacts. Leliana raises her shoulders up and down in a shrug. "I'm sorry if the ride was jostling at all," she says, but the open expression on the other woman's face, the minute shrug she makes, assuages Olympia's guilt somewhat. "You'll have to follow me for the next bit, going downhill like this is a little more challenging."

The hill begins to decline steeply; the two are riding close enough that Olympia can reach over and take the reins from Leliana to tie them to her own saddle, leading the other horse down a series of switchbacks between the trees, clearly the safest route down Rhoswen has scouted for the party. Approaching the ocean, a fine mist shrouds the forest, settling like a low grey cloud over the trees and the riders. Already, the ocean is within earshot. It sounds much calmer than usual, and Olympia offers a small prayer of thanks to the Maker that the weather is serene enough for this hunt in the first place: Eamon ahead of her, fussing over Alistair's safety, is vastly preferable to an Eamon lurking in Castle Cousland, all but ready to pop the question for Alistair himself.

At last the slope evens out to a sandy spit of small, rolling dunes, beyond which the waves crash and ancient tree trunks, weathered and smooth from being tossed about in the sea, stand like enormous driftwood giants. The rest of the party has gathered next to one such log, waiting for the stragglers to catch up while the dogs rove around the dunes, eagerly for any traces of game. Olympia returns Leliana's reins to her grasp, and steers her own horse to confer with Rhoswen.

"Anything good?"

Rhoswen looks pointedly at the dogs. One of the hunting hounds has clearly caught a scent, ears back against its head as it sniffs to and fro, following its nose down the beach. It rounds in a circle about thirty yards away before throwing its head back and baying. The other hounds, Loki included, take off after it.

"Bear," says Rhoswen plainly, over the cacophony of yips and howls. "That good enough for you?"

The hunt is on.

The dogs lead the hunters some ways down the beach, incessant in their barking now, and into a little valley between two hills that juts up against the beach. A stream flows shallow and clear down between them and into the sea - a favorite spot of great bears for fish and tender water plants. Rounding in to enter the valley, Olympia sees Rhoswen drop her reins to unsling her bow from her shoulder, snatching up an arrow from her saddlebag quiver, staying astride her hunter with only her balance and the grip of her thighs. Alistair, she notices, looks suitably impressed.

_Maker_ , she thinks with an inward sigh, she hopes Rhoswen doesn't inadvertently get the king killed on account of being impressive.

"Bear!" Fergus calls to the rest of the hunters, just as his horse half-rears back in a surge of panic that sets the dogs into a mad frenzy, and suddenly it's there, an enormous boar nearly as large as Olympia's horse charging out of the stream to confront the racket the hounds are making.

For a moment Olympia is frozen, stricken by the sheer size of the thing. When it roars in anger at the hounds, she feels her very bones rattle. Dimly from behind her there's a commotion, horses screaming in fear and hunters shouting for spears and pikes, and above the cacophony she can hear Alistair yelling, " _Steady_!"

She snaps out of it just as Loki darts in to snap at the bear's hind ankle, narrowly avoiding a swipe of the enormous paws. The twang of Rhoswen's bowstring accompanies the din of the hounds as they swarm around the bear, keeping it contained at a distance from the hunters by snapping and snarling at its feet, the bolder dogs leaping to nip at its rump and hindquarters before it swings about to retaliate. Olympia hurriedly dismounts, hefting her shield and the hunting lance that's handed to her - as one, she and the other hunters slowly close in on the bear, careful to keep their distance in case of a charge.

Rhoswen's arrows jut out of the beast's hide like a half dozen splinters; one has made its way through an enormous paw and broken off, blood streaming from the wound. The bear doesn't show any signs of noticing, distracted as it is with the dogs. When one of the larger hounds launches itself to latch its jaws into the ruff of the bear's neck, the great animal merely shakes it off and gives another bone-shattering roar.

"Sis, to the left with Alistair," Fergus calls to her, gesturing with his head for Olympia to come with him to flank the animal. "Alistair, it's weaker on that side - keep your distance," he adds, before Eamon has a chance to speak. They split off, Olympia gripping the pole of the lance in her sword hand, ready to lunge and spear it, if need be -

The bear shakes itself and sweeps forward with its paws, sending three hounds flying; Olympia cries out before she can help it - but Loki is unharmed, circling the bear as if figuring the best point to attack from. She wants to call him off but knows he wouldn't listen, the thrill of the fight has everyone's blood up - the bear is beginning to tire, slowly but surely, bleeding as it is from bites and Rhoswen's arrows.

"Careful, careful!" Rhoswen yells, an edge of panic to her voice, and Olympia looks up from Loki long enough to see the bear beginning to list to the left in its pursuit of the dogs. Her heart jumps into her throat, she hefts the lance - but the bear is rising onto its hind legs and it is massive, nearly twice as tall as Fergus with muscles rippling beneath the dark shaggy fur, paws the size of dinner platters topped by wicked claws like razors.

_Oh Maker_ , she thinks in the space of a second, locking eyes with the bear. _It's forgotten about the dogs_.

"Behind me!" Alistair yells above the ringing in her ears, starting to bring his shield up to counter the bear, for all the good it'd do now - Olympia hefts her lance, wondering if it's too late, if she still has time -

There's the sharp whistle of an arrow spearing through the air; Olympia blinks and a bolt has embedded itself in the bear's left eye. A _fsst_ noise, and another one joins it, jutting out of the throat.

In the space of a breath, the bear begins to crumple, a truly piteous groaning noise escaping as it falls. Olympia barely has time to yank Alistair backwards before it topples over, landing with a meaty thud that shakes the nearby trees.

For a moment all Olympia can do is blink, heart beating doubletime in her ears. It's only when Fergus rushes up to them in a panic does she remember to breathe. Her hands are suddenly shaking too much for her to continue holding the hunting lance. It falls to the ground next to her, clattering on the stones of the stream bed.

"Are you all right?" Fergus asks, clasping her shoulders and giving her a heartening squeeze. Her knees are threatening to give out. "You're not hurt, are you? Alistair?"

"Maker's _breath_!" the king exclaims, also putting a hand on Olympia's shoulder. He looks at once pale with fright and exhilarated. "I thought we were nearly done for."

"Eamon is going to be apoplectic," Fergus mutters. All Olympia can do is nod, not trusting herself to speak quite yet. Alistair lets out a gusty exhale. He seems to be shaking a little himself.

"It's a good thing the Lady Mahariel is such a sure shot," he says at last, turning to the bear on the ground, studded through with arrows, utterly still but no less massive even in death.

"Uhm," Rhoswen says faintly, still astride her horse. She holds up her empty quiver, eyes wide. "That wasn't me."

  
\- -

  
The jovial mood of the hunting party doesn't last on the return trip, despite the Teyrna's brother saying that, without a doubt, they've brought down the largest bear on the Storm Coast in recent history. On the ride back, Leliana could not keep her hands from shaking. She could not remember ever being so frightened. The animal was enormous, and dangerous, and roared like the fury of a winter storm brought to life - to see it tower over Olympia and the king made her blood run cold, and she hadn't thought, she just acted, snatching the bow from the nearby servant on his horse and drawing the arrow back.

She'd never fired a bow and arrow before. Weapons like that didn't work beneath the waves: Leliana knew how to throw a spear, and throw it true. She had to, when things darker and more dangerous than bears dwelled in the deep. She'd seen Rhoswen firing her bow on a few occasions, most of the time at straw facsimiles of men in the castle's armory. There was no spear within reach when the bear had towered above Alistair and Olympia. Leliana made do with what she had.

The king's advisor - Eamon - calls the Teyrna and her companion into an audience with the Teyrna's brother and the king when the hunting party at last arrives back at the castle. Leliana is not privy to this meeting; she can only watch as Olympia walks wearily down the corridor to the king's chambers, shooting a glance back to her. Whatever she tries to say with that look, Leliana cannot read it.

Alone and still feeling shaky, Leliana returns to her own room. She is, she thinks as she shuts the door behind her, getting into the habit of saving Olympia. She knows she'd gladly do it all over again, but rather hopes that the king's advisor will at least keep them from going out to hunt more bear in the future.

The mood at dinner that night is subdued. King Alistair looks like a child who's been chastised with the way he keeps his face down into his bowl and only glances at the other diners when he thinks Eamon's not looking. Fergus vainly keeps trying to engage him in conversation, attempting to spin the events of the day with a more humorous light, but Leliana suspects the scolding from Eamon is still too fresh to ignore. At the head of the table, Olympia looks mutinous. She glares into her soup while Rhoswen keeps attempting to catch Alistair's eye, obviously attempting Fergus' tack of cheering the king up, though her means are more subtle. Leliana wishes she had something to say to brighten the mood, but she is silent, and the mood only becomes more tense when the desserts are brought out.

Alistair retires early with a stiff 'good night' to Olympia and Rhoswen, and scurries away to his chambers - Leliana assumes to beat Eamon there and shut himself in before he can get another scolding in private. _Are all the human nobility like this?_ she wonders - _stifling and controlling to the point of making everyone around them miserable?_ Fergus follows Alistair, bidding his own good nights, and when Eamon rises to leave no one says anything - though Olympia does shoot a venomous glare at the door when it shuts behind him.

"Well," the Teyrna sighs. "That was lovely. Lucky thing we only have a few more weeks of this."

"As much as I hate to say it, he has a point," Rhoswen muses. She leans her head on her hand, casting her eyes around the empty hall. Leliana likes to think she knows Rhoswen well enough now to tell when the elf is sitting on something that she wants to say. "If Leliana hadn't been there, we could very well be mourning both the King and Teyrna Cousland right now."

Olympia jolts, as if she's forgotten about Leliana sitting at the end of the table. Leliana gives her a weak smile, one which she does not return. Olympia's brow is furrowed with thought. "I know," she says quietly, with a great deal less venom in her demeanor. "I keep thinking about it."

"Leliana, may I have a word?" Rhoswen asks. Her voice seems very loud in the quiet hall. Leliana looks at her, puzzled, but nods.

"Rhoswen!"

In a flash, Rhoswen has pulled a dagger from somewhere within her dinner gown, and has moved behind Leliana a blink, grabbing her arm and twisting it firmly behind her back. Olympia's eyes are wide, her mouth agape; Leliana's too shocked to do anything but blink and gasp silently.

"I am only going to ask you this once," Rhoswen says behind her. Her voice bears no hostility, though that doesn't necessarily mean there is no danger. "I doubt I could have made that shot from that distance myself, and I know I'm good with a bow. That kind of shooting means professional training, not just beginner's luck."

" _Rhoswen_!" Olympia says again, a new edge to her voice.

"We need to know, Olympia," Rhoswen says evenly. "Are you an assassin, Leliana?"

Leliana wants to twist to look at Rhoswen while she denies it but has to settle for locking Olympia's eyes with hers, unsure if Rhoswen would take kindly to her turning while she's got a knife in her free hand. With exaggerated slowness, to make her meaning very clear, Leliana shakes her head.

"She's not lying, Rhoswen," Olympia says. She half-rose from her seat when Rhoswen moved behind Leliana, and seats herself again, looking very tired.

Instantly, the grip on Leliana's arm releases, the knife is sheathed and Rhoswen reappears in her field of vision. "Sorry," she says, sounding genuinely apologetic. "I didn't want to harm you - really. You can see why we'd have to be suspicious though, right?"

Leliana nods. Rhoswen reaches out and pats her a hand, offering a small smile. "Well, I'm glad you're not an assassin, at any rate. I don't think I'd have been able to kill you if you were, and I know Olympia couldn't."

Olympia shakes her head when Leliana peers at her quizzically. It is....heartening, at least, to know that were she a conspirator, she wouldn't have to face Olympia executing her.

Rhoswen excuses herself to bathe and retire, leaving Olympia and Leliana sitting rather awkwardly at opposite ends of the dining table. Leliana wonders if she shouldn't make her own excuses, as it were, and wash the day's hunt from herself before trying to sleep. Minutes slip by in utter silence, until at last Leliana pushes her chair back to leave.

"Wait," Olympia says, looking up at her. "Sorry, I - I'd like to have a word as well. Don't worry, though, I won't pull a knife on you and ask if you're here to kill us."

Leliana shrugs, making a face because she can't say _please don't worry yourself about it_. When she sits back down, Olympia starts to look...nervous, somehow. Her elegant fingers drum without any particular rhythm on the tabletop, before she abruptly stops, sitting back. She seems to be avoiding Leliana's eyes.

"There really aren't words," she starts, then shakes her head. "No, there are - Maker, I'm bad at this," she adds, laughing a little sheepishly. Leliana nods for her to continue. "I....I realized I haven't thanked you for today, not properly. Comes of spending the rest of the afternoon hearing Eamon swear a blue streak about what could have happened and how stupid we were."

Leliana makes a face at that, which gets Olympia smiling, at least, setting her at ease. "I know. and maybe I was right. There aren't words that go deep enough to convey my thanks. You...saved my life. More importantly, you saved the king's life. But he isn't here to thank you, so that falls to me, and..." Olympia exhales a suddenly-frustrated huff of air. "What I mean to say is, I owe you a great debt. If you hadn't been at the hunt, or if you hadn't been as quick with a bow, Fergus would be planning my funeral right now. So," she says, setting her jaw and nodding, as if they're doing business, "anything within my power to give you is yours in return. You don't have to tell me now, or even tomorrow, but the Teyrnir of Highever owes you a great boon. And I'm sure once Alistair is done sulking, he will share my sentiments exactly."

For a moment, Leliana's mind is a wild spin of conflicting thoughts - _kiss me_ , she thinks, followed by, _this is not the first time I've saved your life and I would gladly save it again, boon or not, and please never leave my sight, or go where I can't protect you._ In the end, she settles for nodding.

Though if she lets her gaze linger on Olympia's lips before she rises and retires, well. A woman can't be faulted for gazing at what she'd ask for, if she only had the voice to ask.

  
\- -

  
Though the winter weather continues on mildly for some days, a more sober mood has settled over Castle Cousland and its visiting nobility. Olympia spends her mornings in her study working; afternoons in the library or the training grounds with Rhoswen and Leliana, and evenings playing cards or chatting over a glass of Nevarran port in the parlor with Alistair and his party. Clearly, no one's in a hurry for a reprise of the lecture Eamon had delivered on the day of the hunt, and are therefore determined to be as mild and genteel as possible while going about daily business. Eamon, so far, had not voiced any complaints with the change of pace, and has even sprung less pointed visits on Olympia while she's in her study.

Regardless of the respite from his frustrating visits, it makes Olympia feel like she's contracting cabin fever. Being on one's best behavior in one's own house - it makes her think maybe she'd prefer Eamon's comments about her marriageability, for she knows how to respond to those. The consequence of this is that over the course of the week Castle Cousland finds itself growing dangerously short of training dummies.

"Creators," Rhoswen chirps, surveying the carnage in the training yard with wide eyes. "What did those poor straw men ever do to you?"

Sweat rolling down her temples, Olympia pants and kicks the remnants of the training dummy to the side. She has to sheathe her sword and set her shield aside before she can set up a new one. "I think it's better that I'm targeting these and not actual people."

"If you're worried about a training dummy shortage," comes a voice from behind them, "I'd be happy to spar with the lady Cousland."

Olympia and Rhoswen turn as one to see Alistair, wearing plain leathers and a clean shirt, nonetheless fine for its simplicity. He gives them both a tight smile. "I mean, the only difference is I wouldn't just stand there and ooze straw every time you wale on me."

"I don't know," Rhoswen says brightly, "we could arrange for that; there's plenty of straw lying around and that shirt looks spacious."

At any point in the past weeks, Olympia knows the quip would have gotten a grin, even a warm laugh from Alistair. Today, something in his expression shutters, and he turns away from Rhoswen with a strange grimace to the rack where the battered wooden shields and swords are. He spends far too much time testing the weight of the shields, hefting them up and down on his arm with the air of a man avoiding something.

"Is...everything all right?" Olympia asks, and Alistair turns to shrug at her.

"Peachy," he says. "Is that a yes or a no to sparring?"

By the time they leave the yard Olympia's muscles are screaming in protest, and her mind is screaming at her in alarm as she goes to the baths and peels off her sweat-soaked training gear to soak. Rhoswen had left halfway through their sparring, presumably fed up with only half-attentive grunts from Olympia and no response at all from Alistair to her jokes and good-natured ribbing. It was only when Rhoswen was leaving that Alistair turned to look at her, and Olympia had landed a blow against his side for his inattention. He returned the favor, of course, when she became so distracted by trying to puzzle out his strange expression that his wooden training sword smacked against her wrist, causing her to drop her own blade.

Something's very wrong, and it's not just the way Olympia's bruising wrist still smarts. She sinks a little deeper into the hot bath, stomach roiling with unease in a way that makes her feel queasy, like she's aboard a ship being pitched about in choppy waters. The way Alistair had smiled - could it really even be called a smile? - and all but ignored Rhoswen don't bode well, no matter what wild explanations her mind spins to explain his behavior.

Tonight is another small dinner for the visiting royal party and the ladies of Castle Cousland; Olympia dresses in a gown of silvery blue silk shimmering with beadwork at the wrists, pins up her hair, and enters the main hall where the table is already set just as Alistair and Fergus arrive.

"No worse for the wear, I hope?" Olympia asks. Alistair's changed into something a little more formal and kingly, but the worst thing he wears is the detached smile he gives her before seating himself in his customary seat. Stomach still churning, Olympia takes her seat as well.

It's only when Rhoswen and Leliana enter and sit beside her, and the first goblets of wine are poured, does Olympia realize exactly what is off about Alistair tonight: His smile doesn't reach his expressive eyes, and the cheer of his lips isn't matched by the tension in the rest of his face. Something isn't right, and Olympia isn't sure she wants to know what's happened.

Eamon enters the hall halfway through the turnip and potato soup; murmuring apologies for his lateness. Olympia doesn't miss the way Alistair shrinks in on himself at the sight of his uncle and thinks, _shit_. The way Rhoswen nudges her while reaching for a roll of bread and pointedly meets her eyes for a second means that she's not the only one noticing.

Perhaps, she thinks as the second course of roast lamb and peas is brought out, filling the hall with savory aromas, Eamon has chewed out Alistair again for something - though what Eamon could possibly have to chastise the King about when there's been no excitement or danger, she can't possibly imagine. Either way she hopes the tension dissipates before dessert, or else there will be a tusket in the room after dinner, alongside the port and cards.

Usually, dinner would be accompanied by a steady stream of conversation. Rhoswen would make wry comments, Olympia and Alistair would discuss the political scene of Denerim's court, Fergus would joke at Eamon's expense, and even silent Leliana would eat her meal with a look of cheerful amusement on her face. Tonight, however, there's nothing but the sound of cutlery on plates, the soft rustling of napkins being lifted, punctuated by an infrequent cough or a murmured word of thanks as a dish is passed down the table. Olympia thinks she'll just about go mad beneath the stifling silence when, at last, the dessert plates are cleared away and Eamon breaks the silence.

"Your Ladyship," he says, inclining his head at her in a way that sets her teeth on edge. Something in his demeanor once more sets off the alarm bells in her head into a deafening cacophony. There is something entirely too self-assured in his eyes. "I believe his Highness has something particular he would like to say to you, but I think we all would agree that it wouldn't do to interrupt such a fine meal."

Olympia's palms begin to sweat. She crumples her napkin in her fist until her knuckles go white. She finds that even if she had something to say, she's utterly incapable of responding at all.

"Alistair?" Eamon prompts, for the King has remained as silent as Olympia, stone-faced as he stares down into his plate. Alistair rises, and Olympia's heart begins to pound faster in her chest. Suddenly the terrible inevitability of it all comes crashing down, as Alistair moves his chair out of the way to drop to one knee on the flagstones before her.

"Your Ladyship." Alistair's gaze settles firmly on Olympia's hand, currently crushing the napkin. Olympia wants to jump up and bolt, but finds her limbs are as frozen as her voice is. "Since the moment we met, I've found you to be a most singular woman." His voice drops until it's barely more than a mumble, but each word is horribly clear while everything else in the hall has faded to background noise.

"You are as wise as you are beautiful," he says, as if he is reciting this from memory. "And as just as you are kind. For these reasons that I would consider myself honored, and the country of Ferelden blessed if you would be my wife."

The entire hall sits in a sort of silent shock, the last three words echoing, too-loud, in Olympia's ears.

_Be my wife. Be my wife. Be my wife._

It is not a request. It's an order from the King, though not one born of his own desires, judging from the way he's avoiding her eyes, the back of his neck bright red. Without realizing she's doing, Olympia shakes her head to try and clear the shock, but can only sit numbly as horror rushes in to replace it.

From her side, a barely-stifled gasp. Rhoswen. Olympia drags in a shaky breath, feeling like she's been punched in the gut.

"I - " she begins. Her voice falters. "I - am at a loss, Alistair."

When she says his name, he finally looks up to meet her gaze. The abject misery clear on his face is enough to make her heart ache in her chest, but there is also something imploring about the way he looks at her.

_Be my wife_ , still ringing in her ears.

"Will you marry me?" There's nothing in his voice, no emotion, no humor, no hearty cheer. Just a flat dullness, as if he's resigned to his fate.

It clicks into place just then, and inwardly she curses fiercely. This is a masterful maneuver from Eamon: Whatever he's done to sway Alistair, they all know Olympia cannot risk denying the King a formal request, akin to a thinly-veiled demand, without the slight escalating into some sort of conflict. Alistair gets his bride, though not of his own choosing. The country gets a queen, and eventually, an heir. The stability Ferelden needs, all from those three words and two young people who don't have any say.

The longer she remains silent, the more uncomfortable and wretched Alistair looks. _Don't leave me alone in this_ , he's begging silently.

Feeling horribly physical, like she's going to throw up, and at once disconnected from her body, Olympia feels herself give one quick jerk of the head in affirmation.

\- -

  
The parlor is outfitted with all the trappings of their usual cheerful evenings - a crackling fire, an open bottle of sweet dessert wine, a pack of playing cards - but no one is smiling. Leliana cannot keep her fingers from plucking absent notes on the lute she's grown fond of; over the past few weeks it has been a delight to get her hands on an instrument that will not rust or break in salt water, like those she scavenges from wrecks. But tonight, she cannot summon any joy with which to play. Her heart feels bruised.

To her side, Olympia is stonefaced and staring into the fire's depths. She hasn't said anything since dinner, since -

Leliana's fingers twitch in reflex, plucking a sour note that barely attracts a glance from Olympia. Loki, sitting at his mistress's feet, lifts his head from his giant paws to look at Leliana with wide, unhappy eyes. Smart animal, she thinks, resetting her fingers on the lute's neck to form a proper chord.

She doesn't know any proper human songs - to the dismay of everyone who asked if she knew _The Silver Knight_ or _The Girl in Red Crossing_ , though Alistair seemed especially heartbroken when he learned she could not play _The Ballad of Nuggins_ , whatever that was. But thus far, no one has complained in the evenings as she's sat and improvised, exploring the ways she can set the melodies of the songs of her sea-people to human instruments. Several evenings ago Fergus had deemed her playing "most intriguing," and Leliana takes that to mean the mystery of her origins grows deeper to them. If only, she thought then, she could make the music speak for her.

She strums without paying any mind to what she's playing, notes of a lower register filling the parlor. Melancholic, she thinks. She cannot put any sweetness into the songs tonight, not when it feels like her breast has been hollowed out, aching like a fresh wound. Perhaps it is a good thing she cannot speak, for right now she'd only be able to plead _no_ to the room at large.

To her right, Olympia settles further into her chair. Her eyes reflect the firelight, reminding Leliana overmuch of something dying - no active light within, just resignation to a rapidly-dimming fate. Her fingers still on the neck of the lute. She's about to cast the damn thing aside and go to Olympia, when voices raise in the next room and as one, Leliana, Olympia, and Loki turn to the source of the noise. The door to the corridor, connecting the parlor with the main hall.

"If you'll just - listen to me, just this once, and then you can get back to ignoring me -" Rhoswen, in the hall, voice raised. She is speaking so plainly, Leliana is certain the elf cares little for who might be overhearing.

"I'm not ignoring you!" Alistair protests - the very weak protests of a man who knows he has been ignoring her. "I am sorry if I've caused any offense, Lady Mahariel - if I have led you to believe -"

"I don't care one fig any offense you've caused me," Rhoswen's saying hotly. "I care about _you_ , and whatever he did to get you to do this - I won't stand for it, I will _not_."

"He didn't do anything," Alistair begins. He sounds angry and wretched in turns. "He just - I'm new to this, you see, and Eamon is a man with many years of political experience -"

"He's a man with an _agenda_ ," Rhoswen interrupts. Leliana can picture the fury on her face, and doesn't know why Alistair isn't running right now. "You don't have to do every little thing he says, you know. At the end of the day, you're the King. He's an advisor, and not one who you can trust to have your happiness in mind."

Alistair's voice drops, to the point where Leliana has to strain to hear him through the door. Her hand is fisted so tight around the neck of the lute she's surprised she hasn't broken the strings. She tries to loosen her grip, just as Alistair says, "The thing is...he's right, though."

"About what? Did he say this would make you happy?" Rhoswen still sounds incensed. "You don't look happy, Alistair. You look like someone headed to the executioner's block even as he’s being told it's a party."

"He said -" and here Alistair's voice goes so low that he's barely audible. Leliana finds that she isn't quite breathing. "He said if I marry Lady Olympia, it's really my best and only way of remaining close to you."

There's a long stretch of silence, punctuated only by the crackling of the fireplace and the sounds of the castle bedding down, so distant they might as well be in another realm. Leliana casts her gaze down at the poor lute, whose neck she's been wringing. _Of course_ , she thinks, feeling her chest ache. Her own heart is not the only one being broken by this.

They hear nothing else from Alistair and Rhoswen, and it's safe to assume that they have relocated to have a more private conversation. She's startled by Olympia sighing to her right. Her face is still mostly blank, expressionless, but there's the tightness of anger around her lips.

"Blight take Eamon," she mutters viciously, more to the room at large than to Leliana. "And all of Redcliffe. Conniving, selfish, Orlesian-loving bastard -"

Leliana plucks a discordant note, low and melancholic, and hopes her meaning comes across. Olympia brings a hand to her eyes, leaning back in her seat until she'd be staring at the ceiling beams, and just breathes. It might be a trick of the firelight, but Leliana thinks she sees Olympia's lip tremble.

"Please," the Teyrna says, "keep playing. I don't think I could bear any more silence."

The sea-people have many songs, for every kind of weather; tonight, Leliana plays the quiet ones, the soothing ones - meant for weathering a storm. Although an imperfect translation from voice to lute, Leliana plays a melody that sea-people mothers croon to their young during frightful storms; it transitions into plucking out a tentative lullaby she barely remembers her own mother singing. Olympia remains quiet, though the tense lines around her mouth have eased. That, at least, gladdens Leliana's heart for the moment.

As Leliana plays, a thought occurs to her. It's so simple, she doesn't know why it didn't occur to her before. Of course, her logic tells her, there is still a possibility it might not work, but suddenly she knows if she doesn't at least _try_ it will haunt her for the rest of her life.

She presses her hands to the strings, cutting the last notes she played short. Olympia doesn't stir at the abrupt ending of the melody, nor does she move when Leliana begins anew.

The song she plays is softer. Sweeter. A whisper of affection intended only for the ear of someone beloved, strong as iron in its conviction yet also tender in its unguardedness. Her fingers pick a smooth rise of notes, even-paced as a heart beating, even though her own is pumping madly in her chest with nerves.

This is the song she sang to Olympia - bleeding, wave-buffeted, soaked-through Olympia, diving in and out of unconscious and beautiful on the shore, safe from the water's reach. It is a song that young lovers among the sea-people often sing to one another in that strange phase of courtship when coy flirtation mellows into a steady affection, when attraction drops deeper into love. It is a song of devotion, and when she had her voice she sung her heart into every note, watching Olympia's pale face move ever so subtly beneath the heavy shroud of her swoon.

She does not dare look at Olympia until the last note is played. It echoes through the quiet room clear and tonal, like the ringing of a bell, and suddenly her palms are so sweaty she must put the instrument down. Hesitantly, she glances to her side.

Olympia's just as pale as she was on the day Leliana pulled her from the water. Her eyes are wide, her mouth slightly open. Her mouth opens and closes; she swallows.

" _How_ ," she croaks, and stops. She shakes her head, as if shaking off sleep. Her voice has gone hoarse, Leliana thinks, from shock. "You - you pulled that song from my dreams. As if by magic. I...where are you _from_?"

Leliana cannot answer. She has already given her answer, as many times as she's been able, but she supposes it doesn't matter now. She can only watch as Olympia rises, her face still a mask of shock, and all but flees from the room.

  
\- -

  
The next few days become a studied practice in figuring out just how dead Olympia can be, while still remaining alive.

It was decided on all accounts - all accounts being Eamon - that an immediate wedding was necessary. As soon as she and Alistair were joined in the eyes of the Maker, the royal party could away to Denerim, while Olympia remain in Highever to plan the transfer of the Teyrnir to her nearest kin. With Fergus acting as Captain of the Guard, and Olympia becoming Queen, the next in line to the position was a distant cousin of theirs - someone Olympia had met once when she was seven, and gathered news of as he drank, gambled, and whored his way through the Free Marches.

Her beautiful Highever would remain in his unfit hands until - Olympia's stomach clenches painfully every time she thinks this - either it's run into the ground or Olympia produces a child after Alistair's firstborn heir to inherit the Teyrnir.

She doesn't think anyone can blame her when, shortly after breakfast, she goes into the kitchen and requisitions a bottle of cooking brandy.

_Fine_ , she thinks halfway through the bottle, lying on her bed and watching the ceiling above her dip and swell in a pattern that makes her feel seasick. _Eamon shall get his Cousland queen. He did not dictate that she be sober._

She manages to remain upright but still vaguely numb when a tailor is called from the city two days after she agreed to marry Alistair - a stylish woman dripping with Antivan silks and Orlesian cloth-of-gold, who is utterly delighted that she was chosen to fashion the new queen's wedding gown. Olympia lets herself be pushed and prodded this way and that in front of a mirror and myriad bolts of sumptuous fabric, while the tailor clucks about Olympia's complexion and what jewels would best complement her eyes, and _oh, a seaside wedding, how remarkable! The Teyrna will outshine even the brightest star, how lovely she'll be on her wedding day!_

Olympia only briefly catches Rhoswen looking at her while she's fitted for her gown, and does not meet her eyes again. When at last it's Alistair's turn to be fitted, Olympia flees to her room and drinks an entire bottle of Nevarran red before something within her cracks, and she falls asleep weeping into her pillow.

The new Queen of Ferelden: Beautiful, wise, just, insensate, plagued. Logic and experience told her that drinking until she's able to sleep will give her some hours of respite, regardless of how black and dizzy they are, but instead other things haunt her as she sleeps. She wakes up with the song Leliana played in her head, looping sweetly in on itself until she has to pull her pillow over her head and recite the Chant of Light until her throat hurts and her head spins, just to drive it out.

No one else knew that song when Olympia asked them, but Leliana knew. Leliana played it for her, exactly how she remembered it. But Leliana cannot tell her where the song comes from, and Olympia feels like she is going mad with the mystery, on top of everything else.

_Maker_ , she thinks in a lucid moment, sitting in the bath and staring at her knees. _When did I allow everything to become such a mess?_

  
The wedding is set for the beginning of the new week - an auspicious day according to those who believed in that sort of bunk, heralding a new beginning for Ferelden and its royal couple. Eamon announces this at dinner the day Olympia's wedding gown arrives at Castle Cousland, clearly the only person in the room delighted by the news.

"Weather permitting," Eamon says, "a local captain has happily given us use of his ship, and all thirty of its cannon to use in a salute for the King's wedding."

"Ah," is all Alistair says. Olympia says nothing but refills her wine, ignoring the worried look Rhoswen shoots her.

_And poor Rhoswen_ , Olympia thinks. Poor, blessed Rhoswen. She does not deserve her - the way her friend keeps knocking on her door, attempting to come in and start conversation; the way she's sure Rhoswen is doing the same for Alistair. On a foray to the kitchens for another bottle of brandy, she heard the scullery elves whispering about the way Lady Mahariel had taken off that afternoon despite the steady drizzle, off to Highever's Chantry in an attempt to beseech the Revered Mother from approving the match.

Olympia did not hear whether the attempt was successful, of course, for the gossip ceased as soon as she entered the room. Presumably, Rhoswen's efforts were fruitless, as no one visited her to tell her the entire thing was called off.

Her wedding gown has taken up residence in her chambers, outfitting a dressmaker's mannequin in the corner next to her dressing table. If it were for any other person or any other occasion, Olympia knows she'd find it quite striking: Layers of snow-colored silk cascading into a sweeping train, the laced bodice embroidered with sprays of greenery and roses subtly shimmering with thread-of-gold and silver. But Olympia plucks at the flowing sleeves and thinks, with a bitter taste in her mouth, that she may as well be buried in this gown.

The dressmaker's mannequin stands vigil in the corner, almost seeming to watch her as she drinks, as she weeps, as she slips into fitful sleep. With practice she could ignore it, but in the diminishing of the week going into the weekend and her time running out, it seems to loom larger - a pretty, dainty reminder of an inescapable future.

The night before the wedding, there's a brief knock on her door.

"Come in," Olympia says flatly. Part of her hopes it's Leliana, while the other part of her dreads it, doesn't know what she'll do if the redheaded woman has come to see her. Save for meals eaten in silence save for Eamon's hollow prattling, Olympia hasn't seen Leliana the days leading up to the wedding. She does not know if her heart can take one more blow.

"I'm sorry to interrupt anything," says Alistair, cracking the door cautiously, and then letting himself in when he sees she's decent. Olympia shrugs.

"I'm not doing anything," she says. It's the truth - in a rare moment of sobriety, she's been sitting on her bed and staring at the wall, soaking in a sort of horrified numbness and still wondering where exactly she erred, or if it's too late for her to seek out a Chantry and become a cloistered sister.

Alistair seats himself on the opposite side of the bed from her. He seems very careful to not touch her, but does not say anything immediately. Instead, he sighs.

"....did you want something?" Olympia rolls her gaze from the wall over to Alistair. The wall, at least, wasn't giving her any answers.

Alistair sighs again. "No. Yes?" He fidgets, drumming his fingers on his knees in a way that makes Olympia want to reach over and slap his hands away from his legs. "Perhaps this is only to make myself feel better," he says, a note of bemusement in his voice. "I....wanted you to know, Lady Olympia, that all of this...." he waves at the wedding dress on the mannequin, "it wasn't my idea. And it's not what I want either."

At that, Olympia turns to look at him. Something hot like anger is seeping through the chilled numbness in her. "If it's not something you want, then why - why would you -?"

"Eamon has done a lot for me," Alistair says. Something in his tone is practiced, like he's spent a great deal of time dwelling on this justification. "He didn't have to look out for me when I was growing up, away from the court, but he did. When it came time to take the throne, between his political experience and how he basically raised me, it made sense for him to become my advisor."

"But that's -" Olympia interrupts. Alistair shakes his head.

"I don't know if you've noticed, but I am very new to being King," he says, a note of self-deprecation in his voice. "And I suppose sometimes I get ahead of myself. The incident with the bear while we were hunting - after, he told me it was a reminder."

"A reminder?" Olympia repeats, disbelieving. "A reminder of what?"

"That I should listen to him," Alistair says. "'You didn't listen to me on the hunt and nearly got yourself killed, Alistair. Perhaps it would be in your best interests to heed what I say from now on.' So I did."

"And now look what that's getting us," Olympia snaps, before she can quite rein in her temper. After endless days of feeling numb, it almost feels good to be angry.

"I know," Alistair says in a small voice. "For what it's worth, Lady Olympia....at least we're in this together."

_It's not the same_ , Olympia wants to protest. _You're not going to spend the rest of your life screaming on the inside_.

But the man looks so helpless, cast adrift like a boat among crashing waves without sails nor oars, that Olympia lifts her hand and places it briefly atop his. His smile is faltering, and she cannot return it, but she squeezes briefly before letting go.

"Lady Rhoswen has snapped three bowstrings and emptied two whole quivers into a training dummy since supper," he says. "I might go out and join her. You're welcome to join us, if you have it in you for a late night rampage in the training yard."

Olympia demurs and Alistair takes his leave, the door shutting softly behind him. She rises and locks it, undresses, and crawls under her furs and coverlets, suddenly unable to stop shivering.

Contrary to her earlier prediction, sleep takes her easily, though she's no less dogged by that phantom melody. She's only halfway through mentally reciting _Transfigurations 12_ to drive it off before the blackness of exhausted slumber overtake her.

  
\- -

  
Leliana feels like she has only just slipped into an exhausted sleep, worn from weeping silently into her pillow, when there's a sharp rap on the door to her room. There's only watery, thin sunlight through the windows - it must be very early indeed. She pulls on a robe before undoing the latch, her bare feet on the stone floor making her shiver.

Rhoswen stands outside her room, hair already drawn up into an elaborate braided bun, wearing a gown of petal-colored damask and a look of grim determination. "May I come in?"

Warily, Leliana nods and steps aside to admit the elf. As soon as the door is shut behind her, Rhoswen explodes into an anxious pace, slender fingers wringing themselves. Leliana can only watch, befuddled. It is too early, and she is too exhausted to handle much of anything.

"Get ready to leave, and quickly," Rhoswen says, looking about the chamber. Leliana can only stare at her toes and nod.

She's been anticipating this moment for some days. Olympia has been avoiding her, since the proposal and the nigh with the lute...frankly, Leliana is surprised that she's been allowed to stay on this long. Clearly whatever connection she and Olympia have has been severed on one end, and it's only a matter of time before the inhabitants of Castle Cousland politely cast her adrift, now that their Teyrna has elected to leave. Leliana has just been resigning herself to it - to the thought of floating, mute, in the land of men like so much jetsam for the rest of her days.

Rhoswen, however, has not ceased her pacing. "You still have the dress you wore to the royal dinner? Good, it's a bit outdated, but it will do." She stops in the middle of the room and shakes her head. "The ship's leaving at half-past ten. Eamon's all but said you weren't welcome to come to the ceremony - 'family only' this, 'a momentous occasion for the country that', but if you'll pardon my Orlesian, _fuck_ that. You're coming with me - we're not letting Eamon do this."

Something like hope unfurls in Leliana's chest. She gives Rhoswen a questioning look, hoping her _how?_ is conveyed. The elf looks a little sheepish.

"Okay, I may have gotten a little ahead of myself. But we'll figure it out. ...somehow," she adds. "At the very least, even if we can't stop it...I want you there to try. And I know Olympia would want you there too."

Leliana's throat tightens. She swallows heavily and approaches Rhoswen to squeeze her hands in gratitude. The elf quirks a weary half-smile at her. "Come on, let's get you ready for a royal wedding."

Eamon's lips purse into a scowl when he sees Rhoswen and Leliana strolling to the courtyard, where a duo of ornate carriages has been brought in from Denerim on short notice, specifically for the wedding party. The advisor is good at smoothing over his dismay, however; he opens the carriage door for Rhoswen and Leliana and gestures for them to board. The day is bright though deceptively cold; the wind blows with a bitter snap that cuts through the fine coat Leliana wears.

"You ladies look lovely," Fergus says as he climbs into the second carriage to join them. He wears an amiable smile, looking very handsome indeed in a shirt of Highever weave beneath a boiled leather breastplate, his guard captain's sword belted to his side. When the carriage door is shut and Eamon is out of earshot, his smile abruptly drops. "I didn't think it would get this far," he says, keeping his voice low. "Have you seen Olympia today?"

"No." Rhoswen shakes her head. "I don't like any of this."

Leliana shakes her head, hoping her feelings on the matter are clear. Fergus sighs, rubbing a thumb absently along his chin.

"I was trying to talk Alistair out of it at breakfast, for all the good it did me," he says. "Poor lad just got this look on his face, worse than a kicked mabari. I get the feeling we're going to be seeing a lot of that face in the future."

Rhoswen reaches across the carriage to pat his hand. "We'll find some way of making this right," she says, at once gentle and full of steely resolve. Leliana wishes she had her confidence; a sentiment Fergus seems to share.

"We've no chance of out-maneuvering Eamon; he's equally loved and feared in the Landsmeet for a reason," he says. "Anything that stops the wedding is going to have to come from the King himself, and I think at the moment he's too cowed by what Eamon wants to make any bold decisions for himself."

But something has attracted Rhoswen's attention outside of the carriage window; her eyes widen and anything she was about to say dies in her throat. Leliana follows her gaze and feels as though she's been dealt a blow by some great invisible weapon: Olympia is descending the steps from the main hall's entrance in her wedding gown.

The thread-of-gold and silver of her gown catch the winter sunlight and the pale fabric gleams pearl-like; her dark hair is swept back into an elaborate knot on the nape of her neck, soft curls falling loose to frame her face. A necklace of silver and emeralds glistens on her white throat, her lips are rouged even as her mouth is set into a straight line.

She's the most beautiful thing Leliana's ever seen; Leliana practically has to fight for breath, but even as glittering as Olympia's eyes are cold and distant as diamonds. When she looks around the courtyard it's as if she sees right through the carriage, gazing into a great nothingness. Even Loki trotting at her side barely registers to her, she seems to be greatly surprised when she makes to climb into the first carriage and has to walk around the mabari.

Seeing the Teyrna hard and glimmering as ice sets a fresh wave of anguish crashing through Leliana, as their little party in the second carriage rocks and sways with the motion of the horses turning in the courtyard. She has to bury her face in her hands, trying to breathe, even as Rhoswen sets a comforting hand on her shoulder.

"She's a very beautiful bride," Fergus says, sadness in his voice. "Though I'd always hoped that we'd see her smile on her wedding day."

Rhoswen says nothing, and their carriage remains silent for the duration of the bumpy ride into Highever. Leliana can hear the rumble of Olympia's carriage just ahead on the road, the pounding of hooves, and wonders if Eamon is engaging Olympia and Alistair in small talk, plans for the union, or if the silence in that carriage is just as overwhelming.

Leliana had often listened to Olympia and Rhoswen speak about the city of Highever - everything from formal requests lodged by the city's guilds to property disputes made by the noble families who reside there, squabbling every generation or so about one manor or another. None of that could have prepared Leliana for the enormity of it through the carriage windows; an overwhelming sprawl of stone and woodwork, and just beyond that, stone piers jutting into the sea. She can hear gulls above the din of people and the unceasing thunder of the carriage wheels, she can smell woodsmoke and sea air and the myriad odors of humanity. On any other day, she would be curious beyond words, perhaps leaning out of the carriage window just to _look_.

Common folk who see the carriages with their royal seals on the doors send up a hearty cheer as they speed past to the harbor, many doffing their caps or just raising their fists in salute. Perhaps that, Leliana realizes, is what it means to be a King or a Teyrna, beyond the work that Olympia devoted so much time to. She thinks of Ida, back in Oar's Rest. She wonders if the old woman would be pleased with the news of her Teyrna's wedding to the King she held in such high regard, or dismayed that Olympia would be leaving Highever.

The carriages slow to a gentle roll near the harbor, and as they round a corner sloping east to the waterfront, a great roar goes up: The sides of the lane are packed full of people, so many Leliana cannot try to take them all in without getting dizzy, and as the carriages slow to a stop the cry only increases in fervor and pitch. As the carriage doors open, Leliana thinks she will be deafened as the crowd only grows louder in its cheers and hails for King Alistair, who raises a hand to wave, smiling a smile that never quite reaches his eyes. Likewise, when Olympia emerges from the carriage and only looks beyond the crowd, the fervor abruptly falls to as many whispers as cheers. Walking next to Rhoswen, Leliana hears one fishwife whisper to her companion, " _What is wrong with the Teyrna_?"

They've pulled up alongside the dock where a magnificent ship is moored, an enormous galleon rocking slightly in the tide, Ferelden flags and royal banners hanging from every mast snapping in the brisk wind. A woman in red and white robes with an enormous hat is waiting alongside the gangway, standing next to a muscular bearded man shorter even than Rhoswen, whose ears are pierced with gold rings from earlobe to shell. There's a wicked-looking scarred brand on his cheek just above his elaborately-braided beard, and Leliana finds herself staring before remembering it's impolite. She feels suddenly very overwhelmed.

"Your Reverence," Eamon is saying to the woman with the large hat. "Thank you for the warm welcome."

"It is my pleasure, and that of Highever, to bear witness to such an important day for our country," the woman replies. "It is an honor, your Highness."

Alistair murmurs something that sets the bearded man off in a burst of laughter.

"Lad's looking a little seasick already," he says, in a surprisingly deep voice. "Don't you fret, Captain Gorrick and _The Paragon_ will ensure there's nothing but smooth sailing for you and your bride on your wedding day."

"Thank you, Captain," Alistair says a little stiffly, before he and Olympia are escorted up the gangway by Eamon and the robed woman. For a moment Leliana sees Olympia's frozen exterior crack, and she looks back, expression lost, before disappearing onto the ship.

"Well, that was rude of them," Gorrick muses aloud as Fergus, Rhoswen, and Leliana approach. His eyes widen as he takes them in. "This isn't the setup to a joke, is it? A dwarf, an elf, and a revered mother are all on a boat for the King's wedding?"

"If it's a joke, Captain, none of us are laughing so far," Rhoswen says, frowning..

The dwarf sighs. "I got the feeling that this wedding could use a little more booze, a little less doom and gloom. Maybe that's for after, I dunno. Follow me aboard, sers, and we'll get underway."

The crowd around the docks has quieted and begun to dissipate once they realized the King and Teyrna weren't sticking around to grace their adoring public. Fergus places a hand on the bend of Leliana's elbow, helping to guide her up the wooden plank. Gorrick waits until they and Rhoswen have made it safely to the upper deck before whistling sharply; to Leliana's amazement, the sizable crew in constant movement on the deck is made up of as many dwarves and elves as humans. A tattooed elf and a sturdy human man with massive forearms have sprung into action at Gorrick's whistle, and are currently pulling the gangway up and back onto the ship. Alistair and Olympia are standing just below the helm, the pair of them attracting lots of attention from the busy crew.

"Sorry we couldn't do more, Highness," Gorrick is saying as he's climbing the stairs to the helm. "I hope you'll understand it was very short notice, and _The Paragon_ and her crew happened to be the fastest vessel docked when the call went out for a wedding ship, but I'm confident you and your wedding party won't find yourselves lacking."

"Thank you, Captain," Eamon begins, before Gorrick sticks his wide fingers in his mouth to give an ear-splitting whistle.

"What, you've never seen a King get married before?" he barks at a gaggle of crew members, who have stopped their work entirely to stare at the wedding party. "Quit your gawking and get back to work or I'll sail us back to Kirkwall just to drop you all off!"

Not looking shamefaced in the slightest, the handful of crew, mostly dwarves and elves, disperses back into the clusters of busy crew tending to their work on deck.

"That's the other thing," Gorrick shrugs, setting his hands on the handles of the ship's wheel which, Leliana notices, is more to scale for his height than a regular wheel. "Hope you don't mind a bunch of witnesses staring at you during the ceremony."

The brisk breeze freshens as the ship leaves harbor, the sails billowing as she plows into deeper water. Sea spray mists her face, familiar in its salty kiss, and Leliana's heart aches in a strange new way on top of the constant sadness of Olympia's marriage. It's been so long since she's been this close to the ocean. She can feel the pull of it within her bones, the freedom of the open water calling to her.

Eamon guides Alistair and Olympia up to the quarterdeck, where the Revered Mother has already found a seat, serenely paging through a book of sermons despite the sea spray and the rocking of the ship. Rhoswen’s hand twitches, as if she means to go after her friend, before she drops it and leans against the rail, lower lip jutting out.

“Not a whole lot I can do right now anyway,” she mutters, brow creasing. “Eamon’s not going to let either of them out of his sight until the vows are said and the deed is done.”

Leliana scrubs her face in with her hands. For all Rhoswen spoke of stopping the marriage, it seems the elf is just as powerless as Leliana to say or do anything. She stands beside her, taking some comfort in the rocking motion of the ship - if she closes her eyes she can pretend she’s floating on the tide, arms stretched wide and face to the sky, falling into the ocean’s embrace.

_Have I made a mistake?_ She wonders, gazing into the steely blue depths as the wind picks up, speeding the galleon along the waves. But even as soon as she’s finished the thought, she knows the answer. She hasn’t. She gladly gave up the ocean, and would give up her life beneath the water again, if only to know Olympia’s alive and safe. Perhaps that, she thinks, is all she can ask for in this lifetime.

  
\- -

  
Captain Gorrick talks enough for the entire wedding party put together.

Olympia is, at the very least, grateful for the distraction, if only because it means she's not expected to make small talk about her upcoming nuptials with the Revered Mother. The dwarf can talk at length about anything and everything, from the price of silks in Antiva city to the time they saw what - allegedly - was a qunari dreadnought out on open water.

"But it was foggy," he adds, "and nearly midnight, so it could have just been another merchant vessel thinking _we_ were the qunari, just as scared of us as we were of them."

The stories earn some chuckles from Fergus and Eamon, and even manage to pull a stilted smile from Alistair's glum expression, but Olympia feels as if she's getting closer and closer to screaming until her lungs are raw. The beautiful gown weighs on her as if it's made from iron; her beautiful fur-lined dress boots might as well be manacles around her ankles. Nausea at the finality of today has been souring her stomach since she woke up, and since putting on her wedding dress she's felt strangely detached, as if she's floating somewhere above her body, helpless as she watches this travesty unfold.

The ship steers to the west, keeping the coastline within sight. They're far enough out on the water that the waves breaking on the distant shore only appear as faint white-capped ripples, and the wind is strong to raise the sea into choppy swells, sending the ship rising and falling with each small wave it meets.

Of course, this does nothing for Olympia's stomach.

"Are you feeling well, sis?" Fergus has appeared at her side on the rear deck, one hand resting on her shoulder while the other steadies himself on the railing. Looking out at the main deck, she sees Rhoswen and Leliana standing shoulder to shoulder on the port side, looking out at the waves. She can see Rhoswen's lips moving, but can't hear anything. Seeing Leliana only worsens the roiling in her gut, until at last she has to turn away.

"Do I _look_ like I'm feeling well?" she snaps, scowling. Anger is a familiar feeling, one she can bolster herself with against the nausea and the uncomfortable, floating numbness. One small part of her twinges with guilt that Fergus is her target, and for a bleak moment she can see through her own misery into the future: A lifetime of lashing out at those around her, like an animal caught in a trap, awaits her.

"You look dreadful," he says plainly. His mouth presses into a thin line. "Perhaps the water's a bit too rough for a pleasure cruise today."

"Never one to mince words, are you?" she says. Yanking her shoulder away from his grasp, she pulls away from him. "It's just...a little seasickness. I'll recover. I just think - I think I need some fresh air."

"Of course," Fergus says. His voice has gone deeper, sadder. "Take your time, sis."

As she descends the steps she can hear Eamon conferring with the captain, who grunts in affirmation. "No wedding until calmer waters? We'll find somewhere nice and quiet for you, Highness."

Olympia has to brace herself against the starboard railing. With the wind stinging her cheeks, she realizes how flimsy her excuse was as the air on the open sea couldn't get any fresher, but she feels less stifled walking to the fore deck by herself. Most of the crew vacated beneath deck once they hit the open water, presumably to stay out of the way of the wedding until the celebratory wine is opened, and only a small detail of men and women are keeping themselves busy near the rigging. When she makes it to the front of the ship, where it is totally, utterly empty, she feels at last she can breathe.

The sea is still rough, the nose of the ship rising and falling in constant motion, but alone, with the wind on her face and salt air in her nose, it is more tolerable to be in her own skin. Paired with the small sense of relief is the disquieting knowledge that this reprieve won't last - these are her last moments of freedom until they reach calmer waters, where she and Alistair will stand side by side before the Revered Mother and -

She cuts that thought violently short, staring out past the waves to where the blue sea meets the steely sky. The railing is slippery with sea water, she grips it until her fingers ache.

Looking out on the water, Olympia can see in her mind's eye a thousand lives she could have lived - one where she's not broken under the weight of duty, perhaps, where she could come to love Alistair and be content with her lot in life. One where she remains in Highever, married only to her people until she dies an old maid. One where she leaves the ruling to Fergus and takes her vows, trying to find the peace she'd never found in herself in the Maker. One where she died when she was supposed to all those weeks ago, battered against rocks at the foot of the sea-cliff, no phantom song to weave its way into her brain while she slept.

The life that hurts the most to see is the one where she's not such a coward, where she kissed Leliana the night of the feast in her room, after treating her skinned knee - the one where she's unafraid of what might happen if she allowed herself to understand the intensity of Leliana's gaze.

Olympia ducks her head, throat closing around a sob. Her nails are digging so deeply into the wood railing she's getting splinters; she cannot bring herself to care. _This is it_ , she thinks: _This is the moment I'll regret for the rest of my life._

The sound of the ocean has dulled to a roar in her ears, the creaking of the ship and stinging of the wind nothing more than background noise. She sees without seeing, hears without hearing.

She does not hear the cries from the rear deck until the water crashes into her, and it all happens in a blur after that, same as it did when she fell from the cliff - her fingers slip, her feet falter beneath her, and suddenly she's over, cold in the air for a split second before she's under the waves.

She cannot tell which way is up; every time she thinks she gets her bearing she's buffeted about and loses track all over again, insensate with panic. She claws through the water to get to the surface, fighting a losing battle against the weight of her gown. Her lungs burn and her eyes sting, she kicks her legs to try to break the surface, only to find them wrapped in place by the train of her gown, tangled about her in her struggling.

The surface of the water is bright with daylight - she knows where to go, but her legs are pinioned and her arms near-useless in the heavy sleeves of her gown. A mass of bubbles plumes around her before she realizes she's opened her mouth to cry out; the water is pure salt enough to make her choke and gag before she closes it, lungs screaming for air -

\- _Maker, help me_ -

\- a crash into the waves above as she sinks deeper, throat closing -

\- _please_ -

\- fingers aching, heart aching, lungs bursting -

  
\- -

  
Olympia opens her eyes at the same time as her mouth, only moments before she has to turn to the side and retch what feels like an endless rush of sea water. Her eyes are running, salty water dripping out of her nostrils. Beneath her is the grit of sand, she digs her fingers into it as she purges, no clear coherent thoughts past expelling the gallons of water she swallowed until there's none left.

After what feels like hours she finally coughs, empty, and pulls her tangled hair from her face to take in her surroundings, to gauge what's happened. The beach is unfamiliar but the figure at the waterline is not.

"Leliana!"

Olympia trips over the damned train of her gown, waterlogged and crusted with sand, stumbling over rocks and driftwood until she reaches where the water laps at the shore. The redhaired woman is lying with her face to the sky half-in the water, the pulse of the tide curling and waving her hair like it's a living creature drifting in the sea.

"Leliana," Olympia says again, voice hoarse, falling to her knees in the sand. Her overtired mind cannot make sense of this, cannot piece anything together - all she knows is that Leliana is not responding, does not stir when she shakes her shoulder with trembling fingers. "Please."

Leliana does not stir. Her mouth is slightly open, lips chapped. The bridge of her nose is covered in a faint smattering of freckles, Olympia notices as if for the first time, a ridiculous detail to notice when the woman you love has drowned trying to save you.

Love. Olympia feels as though a great fist has punched into her chest to squeeze her heart; it shocks the breath from her. Abruptly she remembers - it must only be some minutes ago, on the deck of _The Paragon_ , looking out past the sea and into the fates she could have had.

She remembers wanting the life where she's brave enough to love this strange, silent, musical woman before her. She wants that life now, more than anything, more than her heart can bear. She’d give anything for it - throw herself into destitution, renounce her titles and wealth, just to spend every day waking and every night sleeping at Leliana’s side.

Her eyes haven't stopped running. Hot tears brim fresh to fall on Leliana's cheeks when Olympia leans over her, face crumpling in grief. She feels raw, flayed from the inside-out, hot and cold all over in turns.

"I'm so sorry," she whispers, voice shaking. "I have been so foolish, Leliana. I see now."

And she closes the distance between them, putting her lips on Leliana's chapped ones, before she squeezes her eyes shut and dissolves into tears at the knowledge that this - this is the first kiss she's wasted, the one they should have had long ago, the one she would have never let herself had if she hadn't fallen from the ship.

It happens like a lightning strike in reverse.

Olympia feels a rush of wind, of energy; it feels like static and potentiality and raises the hairs on her arms and the back of her neck. It is like nothing Olympia has ever felt before - wrong, yet assuredly right, like the prickling feeling of tracing constellations in the night sky, like the sensation of falling into a deep slumber, like standing in a roaring storm, thrumming with life amid the torrential rains and howling winds. Then it races back out like a tidal wave, like a thunder clap, stealing the breath from her lungs in its wake.

Leliana's eyes open, blinking slowly up at Olympia before widening in surprise. She sits up so quickly Olympia has to scramble back in the sand to avoid knocking their heads together, which is foolish, considering Leliana's next move was to throw her arms around her shoulders and kiss her again.

"Oh," Olympia breathes, between the kisses. "I thought I lost you, and it would have been my fault - Maker, Leliana, I could never live with myself if you had died to save me -" and she's cut short by Leliana bringing her in for a fierce hug.

"Olympia," sighs a faint voice next to her ear. Olympia's pulse jumps in her throat; she shoves Leliana back for a moment, taking her in with wide eyes.

"Did - you can -"

Leliana looks shocked herself. She holds a hand to her throat, perplexed, before her face breaks into a brilliant smile. "The spell is broken, I - it must have been your kiss, I never thought -"

"Hold on a minute," Olympia says, even as she's lost to the utter delight of Leliana's lips moving, of the musical lilt of her tone. "A spell - and I broke it? How - ??"

"It does not matter right now," Leliana says, pulling Olympia back in. "I will explain later, but please keep kissing me for now."

That is something Olympia can happily comply with. They both taste of salt water and there is sand on her lips, but it doesn't matter at all - not when Leliana hums against her mouth, twining her fingers in her already-tangled hair, pulling her so close they're practically one creature of pounding heart and shared breath. It is blissful, it is perfect, and perhaps Olympia was wrong earlier: their first kiss unfolded exactly how it needed to. Her limbs are heavy but her heart and head are light, so light.

She brings her hands up to cup Leliana’s cheeks, resting her forehead against Leliana’s. Her fingers are trembling. “I thought I lost you,” she whispers.

“I thought I lost _you_ ,” Leliana says softly, embracing her. “Olympia, you must know - surely you must.”

Olympia closes her eyes. She’s close enough to feel Leliana’s heart beating, to feel her breath. “I think I do.”

“You fell from the cliffs weeks ago,” Leliana begins, and Olympia shakes her head.

“Somehow I always knew it was you,” she says, remembering the color of sunset, the lingering traces of a song she only half-recalled upon waking. “Even when I was afraid to see.”

Leliana’s fingers, cold and still wet with salt water, come up to grasp Olympia’s wrists. “It’s all been for you,” she says, the raw truth in her voice opening a fresh ache in Olympia’s chest - though not an unpleasant hurt. “I’ve yearned for you from the moment I saw you.”

“You have me,” says Olympia, feeling fresh tears pricking at the corners of her eyes. “Eamon’s machinations can’t take me away from you now.”

There’s a huff of breath against her face, and Olympia tilts her head back to see that, wonder of wonders, Leliana is _laughing_. Maker, she thinks - she wants to see Leliana laughing for the rest of her life.

“I should think not,” says the redheaded woman, pulling her closer for another kiss. “I believe I have had the prior claim, - just no voice to claim it.”

"Oh," comes a voice behind them. Olympia breaks away with a start, spinning around on the sand as Leliana laughs again. Rhoswen is standing some yards away, her own fancy gown coated with sand at the hem, relief and amusement warring on her pale face. "We have a lot to talk about - a _lot_ to talk about - and the wedding will have to be cancelled, but only after we get back to the ship to let everyone know you're both still alive. Eamon thinks you jumped, and Fergus would have leapt after you if Leliana hadn’t.”

  
A ways down the beach, there's a small boat manned by a swarthy dwarf woman with a brand to match Gorrick's, and an elf with thick black curls drawn out of his face by what looks suspiciously like a scrap of Orlesian flag. They row in silence, but are unable to keep the cheeky grins from their faces when they notice Leliana and Olympia's knees knock together on the bench, before Leliana reaches to twine her fingers with Olympia's.

The seas are calmer, the little boat bobbing eagerly on the waves like an excitable hound. Olympia feels miles away from the person she was this morning, despite the uncomfortable, itchy weight of the soaked and sand-covered wedding gown, despite the ache in her limbs and lungs. She squeezes Leliana's fingers, and closes her eyes when Leliana rests her head against her shoulder and hums, ever so softly, a familiar melody.

 

  
_epilogue_

  
_Dear Fergus,_

_As is the custom, I must begin this letter to you with the standard greetings from Highever. Rhoswen sends her love, Loki is simply pining away for you and your gifts of bacon every morning at the breakfast table, and Leliana asks that you deliver her note of thanks to Alistair; it is attached in this envelope. (To sate your curiosity, the harp is beautiful beyond words, and Leliana's made great progress in her reading and writing. And yes, I'll have you know her handwriting is much neater than mine.)_

_Sad as we are to hear of Arl Eamon's dismissal, we are eagerly anticipating Bann Teagan's succession of the post of Alistair’s advisor. Between you and I - and Alistair, since you'll tell him everything anyway - Teagan is a fair man, who has all of the political acumen and respect of the Landsmeet that his brother does, with a great deal less of the familial habit of becoming too overbearing. Or, as Rhoswen puts it, "an uncle’s an uncle, but Teagan didn't raise Alistair." I tend to agree with her, to approximately no one’s surprise._  
_Regardless, we are looking forward to traveling to Denerim for Summersday, and are counting down the weeks until we can see you and Alistair again. Rhoswen asks that you tell Alistair he is to outdo our welcome feast for him (ha! not likely), and find some beasts bigger than bears to hunt in Denerim, but not to worry, for Leliana will be there and is, if she does say so herself, more than a fair shot -_

"More than a fair shot?" Leliana reads aloud from over Olympia's shoulder. She rests her hands on Olympia's shoulders, lightly squeezing with affection.

"I think Rhoswen is perhaps a bit sore that you outshot her in the training yard yesterday," Olympia says, setting her quill down and leaning back into Leliana's hands. Leliana snorts.

"She can only say I have 'beginners luck' for so long," she says, as her hands begin to knead softly away at Olympia's shoulders. She has a knack for finding the spots where tension has hidden itself away, releasing the aches and twinges with equal parts gentleness and steel grip. Olympia stifles a groan, closing her eyes.

"Is it time to sleep yet?"

"Perhaps," Leliana says. Olympia cracks one eye open, even as she suppresses a shiver: Leliana's tone has taken on a particular purr, one which suggests Olympia won't be getting to sleep any time soon.

But still, she won't let herself lose this game so easily. "But I'm so very tired," she says, stretching widely and giving an exaggerated, skull-splitting yawn. "So very, very tired, Leliana. I have been working all day, and we're waking so early tomorrow to visit Oar's Rest, I may just pass out on the spot -"

"You poor thing," Leliana says, fighting to hide her smile. "I must be a cruel and heartless siren indeed to keep you from a peaceful night's sleep."

"A wicked temptress of the deep," Olympia says, even as she rises to circle Leliana's waist with her arms, to pull her in for a kiss.

Tomorrow will be the long ride to Oar's Rest, and a luncheon with Ida, who will be effusive as always at the Teyrna's visit, and delighted beyond words speaking and conversing with Leliana again since their last trip out. Tomorrow, they will ride within sight of the waves, and Leliana will whisper when her people flash their fins at her in greeting before disappearing below the surface, back to the kelp forests and sparkling underwater caves Leliana has told her about, wistfulness in her voice but happiness in her eyes whenever she looks at Olympia. Tomorrow, they will wake in their bed and kiss their good mornings before rising to a new day in Highever.

But tonight - tonight, Leliana takes Olympia to bed.


End file.
